and the Monkey-Jack had its stick in the
Tin Trumpet's mouth. But the Tin Trumpet had only caught by a single
thread of the stocking; that gave way, and down came the Trumpet
followed by the Monkey-Jack. The Trumpet rolled off toward the door like
the rest, and the Monkey-Jack went head-over-heels after it. Of course
the large Marble had no help for it now; he dropped out of the heel,
and the rest of the Marbles came tumbling after with the Peanuts in the
midst of them. The Marbles and Peanuts, unlike the rest, rolled off
toward Two Eyes; the Marbles disappeared through one eye, the Peanuts
through the other.

It seemed of no avail now for the rest to keep their place. "It is no
use to keep up appearances longer," said the Mask, and he dropped out
and walked off on his nose. The Skates who had not spoken before, now
turned to the Muffler and said: "We shall cut a pretty figure going
through the hole like the rest, we may not go after all; there's many a
slip--" but before they had finished the sentence they had followed the
rest, and were striking out for the door.

Nothing now remained but the Muffler and the Candy. The Muffler spoke in
a thick voice, "I am a sort of relation to the stocking and intend to
remain by it, if it is a poor relation. It won't turn me out of doors,
surely." The Candy, replied in a sweet voice, "As for me, I shall stick
to the stocking. My dear Muffler, you quite melt me, you are so warm
and affectionate."

After this point, Peter could see or hear nothing further, and for a
very good reason--Kleiner Traum had vanished with his kaleidoscope.

IV.

Kleiner Traum Visits David Morgridge.

[Illustration]

It is no secret whither Kleiner Traum vanished. The moment he had left
little Peter Mit, he was sitting on David Morgridge's breast,
kaleidoscope in hand.

One shake of the kaleidoscope. Really, Mr. Morgridge sees strange
things. He sees a little boy no bigger than Peter Mit, in a snug little
room, hanging up on the door a red and white plaid stocking. The
strangest thing is that he remembers the place and surroundings
perfectly. He knows the cozy room, the white dimity curtains, the
little cot bed, the sixteen-paned window looking out on the church-spire
and the meadow; it was as if he had skipped sixty years of his life
backward, for the little boy was a diminutive David Morgridge.

But the kaleidoscope makes quick shifts. Here is another turn, and Mr.
Morgridge, as if he we