“It were a dead crow,” Bruno persisted. “And there were a apple-pudding--and Uggug ate it all--and I got nuffin but a crust! And I asked for a orange--and--didn't get it!” And the poor little fellow buried his face in Sylvie's lap, who kept gently stroking his hair as she went on. “It's all true, Professor dear! They do treat my darling Bruno very badly! And they're not kind to me either,” she added in a lower tone, as if that were a thing of much less importance. The Professor got out a large red silk handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “I wish I could help you, dear children!” he said. “But what can I do?” “We know the way to Fairyland--where Father's gone--quite well,” said Sylvie: “if only the Gardener would let us out.” “Won't he open the door for you?” said the Professor. “Not for us,” said Sylvie: “but I'm sure he would for you. Do come and ask him, Professor dear!” “I'll come this minute!” said the Professor. Bruno sat up and dried his eyes. “Isn't he kind, Mister Sir?” “He is indeed,” said I. But the Professor took no notice of my remark. He had put on a beautiful cap with a long tassel, and was selecting one of the Other Professor's walking-sticks, from a stand in the corner of the room. “A thick stick in one's hand makes people respectful,” he was saying to himself. “Come along, dear children!” And we all went out into the garden together. “I shall address him, first of all,” the Professor explained as we went along, “with a few playful remarks on the weather. I shall then question him about the Other Professor. This will have a double advantage. First, it will open the conversation (you can't even drink a bottle of wine without opening it first): and secondly, if he's seen the Other Professor, we shall find him that way: and, if he hasn't, we sha'n't.” On our way, we passed the target, at which Uggug had been made to shoot during the Ambassador's visit. “See!” said the Professor, pointing out a hole in the middle of the bull's-eye. “His Imperial Fatness had only one shot at it; and he went in just here!” Bruno carefully examined the hole. “Couldn't go in there,” he whispered to me. “He are too fat!” We had no sort of difficulty in finding the Gardener. Though he was hidden from us by some trees, that harsh voice of his served to direct us; and, as we drew nearer, the words of his song became more and more plainly audible:-- “He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage-Stamp. 'You'd best be getting home,' he said: 'The nights are very damp!'” {Image...He thought he saw an albatross} “Would it be afraid of catching cold?” said Bruno. “If it got very damp,” Sylvie suggested, “it might stick to something, you know.” “And that somefin would have to go by the post, what ever it was!” Bruno eagerly exclaimed. “Suppose it was a cow! Wouldn't it be dreadful for the other things!”