The fishermen’s song grew ever nearer and clearer, as their boat stood in for the beach; and I would have gone down to see them land their cargo of fish, had not the microcosm at my feet stirred my curiosity yet more keenly. One ancient crab, that was for ever shuffling frantically from side to side of the pool, had particularly fascinated me: there was a vacancy in its stare, and an aimless violence in its behaviour, that irresistibly recalled the Gardener who had befriended Sylvie and Bruno: and, as I gazed, I caught the concluding notes of the tune of his crazy song. The silence that followed was broken by the sweet voice of Sylvie. “Would you please let us out into the road?” “What! After that old beggar again?” the Gardener yelled, and began singing:— “He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. ‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said, ‘I should be very ill!’” “We don’t want him to swallow _anything_,” Sylvie explained. “He’s not hungry. But we want to see him. So will you please——” [Illustration: ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO’] “Certainly!” the Gardener promptly replied. “I _always_ please. Never displeases nobody. There you are!” And he flung the door open, and let us out upon the dusty high-road. We soon found our way to the bush, which had so mysteriously sunk into the ground: and here Sylvie drew the Magic Locket from its hiding-place, turned it over with a thoughtful air, and at last appealed to Bruno in a rather helpless way. “What _was_ it we had to do with it, Bruno? It’s all gone out of my head!” “Kiss it!” was Bruno’s invariable recipe in cases of doubt and difficulty. Sylvie kissed it, but no result followed. “Rub it the wrong way,” was Bruno’s next suggestion. “Which _is_ the wrong way?” Sylvie most reasonably enquired. The obvious plan was to try _both_ ways. Rubbing from left to right had no visible effect whatever. From right to left—“Oh, stop, Sylvie!” Bruno cried in sudden alarm. “Whatever _is_ going to happen?” For a number of trees, on the neighbouring hillside, were moving slowly upwards, in solemn procession: while a mild little brook, that had been rippling at our feet a moment before, began to swell, and foam, and hiss, and bubble, in a truly alarming fashion. [Illustration: THE MOUSE-LION] “Rub it some other way!” cried Bruno. “Try up-and-down! Quick!” It was a happy thought. Up-and-down did it: and the landscape, which had been showing signs of mental aberration in various directions, returned to its normal condition of sobriety—with the exception of a small yellowish-brown mouse, which continued to run wildly up and down the road, lashing its tail like a little lion.