h of gold. Hang round their necks now,
with all its luminous jewels, the highest order in the world, the Order
of Great Imagination," commanded the Lion, "For by the Order of Great
Imagination they shall see things that no one else can see, they shall
be able to listen to things that no one else shall be able to hear.
They shall delight in the exquisiteness of things as no one else can
delight in them, who has not received this order. For I declare to you
all that a child who has this glittering order shall know of things
that nobody else in the whole world shall know of. Everything is
ready."

"Let us have Spring," commanded the Lion.

Immediately the words were uttered there came the soft beating of
birds' wings over Ridgwell's head. The atmosphere instantly became
fragrant with the myriad scents of wild flowers.

A mist seemed to swim for a second before their eyes, and, as it
cleared away, they were standing together with many other children
knee-deep in unending banks of bluebells and primroses.

They were in the midst of the most perfect wooded dell they had ever
beheld.

Thousands of delicate flower-stems thrust their tiny spears from earth
and emerald moss, blossoming with flowers before their wondering eyes.

The spiral hedges slowly shook out dappled clusters of white hawthorn.

The interlaced trees above them, amidst which all the birds in
Christendom appeared to be carolling simultaneously, gently outspread
friendly arms, overladen with powdered red and white may blossom.

Butterflies with gaily painted wings hovered tenderly overhead, and
tiny silver thistledown balls sailed across the blue sky spaces, like
little wayward balloons without anybody in charge of them.

"You can all pick as many flowers as you like," suggested the Lion.
"Flowers were meant for the children to pick, so make yourselves
nosegays, garlands, and crowns galore. There are no notices _here_ to
keep off the grass. You can also chase the butterflies if you like,
but I warn you that you will never catch them. As a matter of fact
that is the one thing I don't permit. Any butterfly with really nice
feelings objects most decidedly when a pin is run through its body, as
much as a happy fish hates to be caught upon a hook. I sympathise with
both of them, and consider such practices ought to be stopped."

Ridgwell, well-nigh immersed in a bank of bluebells, listened in a
semi-enchanted condition to the Lion's words of wisdom