His little dog had caught sight of him now, and came rushing out the gate and up the bald hill, barking loudly.  And he kept on sinking nearer to the earth, down, down, nearer and nearer—­and then, quite suddenly, he seemed to forget everything.

The next thing Neville remembered was feeling something wet and warm upon his cheek.  He opened his eyes and saw that the little dog was licking his face.  Sitting up, he looked about him.  He was in the grass on the top of the bald hill; night was very near, and the first star was just beginning to twinkle.

Then, quite suddenly, Neville remembered the Cloud horse and the little yellow man and the little silver man and the head scene-shifter and the wonderful journey and all the rest of it.

“Well, what a remarkable dream,” said Neville, stretching his arms.  And, as he did so, the Sky Flower fell from his hand.

So it was not a dream after all; for, if it was, how could he explain that Sky Flower?  He picked it up and carried it very tenderly, as he set off home to dinner, his little dog trotting at his heels.

“What a beautiful flower!” said Neville’s mother when he got home.  “Where ever did you get it?”

“It is a piece of the genuine sky,” said Neville proudly, as he gave it to her.

His mother smiled at him as she said, “That is a very nice thing to say, and it certainly does look like a little piece of the sky.  But, of course, it couldn’t possibly be a real piece.”

Then Neville knew that if he were to tell the story of his wonderful ride, and tried to explain that he had been right around the world since since he went out to play, his parents would find it very, very hard to believe.  So he said nothing, but ate a very good dinner.

But Neville’s mother put the flower in a vase upon the mantel; and to this day it is still there, as fresh and bright as ever.  It will not fade.  Neville’s mother thinks that is a very strange and wonderful thing.  And so it is.

Since that day, when Neville goes to the top of the bald hill to watch a sunset, he is almost sure that, just as the golden light is fading, he can see a little yellow man by the gateway; and it seems to him that the little yellow man waves a cheery greeting.  But, whether this is so or not, Neville always waves back; and he feels very happy to think that he has a good friend inside the sunset.

THE TRAM-MAN

I’d like to be a Tram-man, and ride about all day,
Calling out, “Fares, please!” in quite a ’ficious way,
With pockets full of pennies which I’d make the people pay. 
But in the hottest days I’d take my tram down to the Bay;
And when I saw the nice cool sea I’d shout “Hip, hip, hooray!”
But I wouldn’t be a Tram-man if. . . . 
               I couldn’t stop and play. 
                                   Would you?

THE AXE-MAN