ed as
Punch. Hildebrand could only express his own gladness by giving Ethel
every toy he had that he thought she would like, and he was so kind to
her that she cried with pleasure.

Before the six months were up Hildebrand was as truthful a boy as anyone
need wish to meet. He made little slips now and then, just at first,
about his escape from the mad bull, for instance, and about the
press-gang.

His stories did not come true next day any more, but he had to dream
them, which was nearly as bad. So he cured himself, and did his lessons,
and tried to stick to the truth; and when he told romances he let people
know what he was playing at. Now he is grown up he dreams his stories
first, and writes them afterwards; for he writes books, and also he
writes for the newspapers. When you do these things you may tell as many
stories as you like, and you need not be at all afraid that any of them
will come true.

THE RING AND THE LAMP

You are, of course, a singularly intelligent child, and so must often
have wondered what has become of all the interesting things that you
read about in the old fairy-tales--the shoes of swiftness, and the sword
of sharpness, and the cloak that made its wearer invisible, and things
like that. Well, the fact is all these things are still in the world,
hidden about somewhere, only people are so busy with new inventions,
wireless telegraphs and X rays, and air-ships, that they don't trouble
any more to look for the really interesting things. And if you don't
look for things, you don't find them--at least, not often; though some
lucky persons have only to walk out of doors and adventures happen to
them as readily as breakfast and bed happen to ordinary folk. But when
people do find any of the wonderful old treasures they generally hold
their tongues about it, because it is so difficult to make people
believe the truth if it is at all out of the way. Two of the wonder
things out of the old stories were found only the other day by a little
girl in Sussex; and she never told anyone but me and one other person. I
often have things told me that no one else ever hears of, because
everyone knows that I can believe anything.

The little-girl-in-Sussex's name was Seraphina Bodlett. She did not
belong to Sussex, having been born in Tooting; but she was staying at a
Sussex farmhouse for the summer holidays. It was the very nicest place
to stay at, plenty of room to play in--all the Sussex Downs, in