When we were ready, and the little trumpeter we'd got had stilled them all with the notes he'd made, that were like somebody saying something and really meaning it--the way a trumpet does--then the children began to sing, soft and all together, from behind a thicket of green that they'd made themselves: "Don't you wish we had a place Where only bright things are, Like the things we dream about, And like a star? "Don't you wish the world would turn For an hour or two, And run back the other way And be made new? "Don't you wish we all could be What we know we are, 'Way inside, where a Voice speaks, Far--and near--and far?" And then they came out--one after another of the groups I've told you about--Science, and Art, and Friendship, and Plenty, and the others. And each one said what they knew how to do to the world to make that wish come true. I don't need to tell you about that. You know. If you have friendship or plenty or beauty in your life, you know. If only we could get enough of them! Out they all came, one after another. It was very still in the wood. The children's voices were sweet and clear. They all had somebody there that they were near and dear to. The whole time was quiet, and close up to, and like the way things were meant to be. And like the way things might be. And like the way things will be--when we let them. Then there was a little pause. For they'd all told what might be, and now it was time to signal Joseph to come running up the road, carrying the globe in its orbit, and speaking for the World, and asking all these lovely things to come and take possession of it, and own it, and be it. But, just as I got ready to motion to him, I had to wait, for down the grassy road through Shepherd's Grove, where there wasn't much travel, was coming an automobile, though one doesn't pass that way from the city once in ten years. We all drew back to let it pass among us. And, in that little pause, we looked, curious, to see who was in it. And then a whisper, and then a cry, came from the nearest, and from them back, and then from them all at once. For, propped up on the seat, was Jeffro. He'd come to the city on the Through, that doesn't come to Friendship Village Sundays, and they'd brought him home this way. I dunno how I thought of it--don't it seem as if something in you works along alone, if only you'll keep your thinking still? It did that now. Almost before I knew I was going to do it, I signed to the man to stop, and I stepped right up beside the car where Jeffro sat, looking like a ghost of a man. And I says: "Mr. Jeffro! Mr. Jeffro! Are you too sick to leave us welcome you home?"