“I’ve come to set you free!” he whispered, as he carried the cage with its tassels of purple and pearls out into the beautiful day. For one minute he wanted to cry, for he had grown to love the little bird. But he remembered again that emperors must not cry. He opened the door of the cage. “Little Old Ancestor’s bird has flown away!” cried the Mandarins. “It has flown so high in the sky that we can hardly see it,” the Court Ladies answered; and they all wished that the Little Emperor would stop gazing up into the sky at the little dark speck, so that they might go in and have their breakfasts. But the Little Emperor, the empty bird cage in his hand, still looked up. High, high in the sky! And now, really, he could no longer see it. But a thread of song dropped down to him, a silver thread of song, a golden thread of love between the hearts of a little bird and a little boy. “Thank you, oh, thank you, my Little Emperor!” [Illustration] “King” Philippe’s Dream Up into the sky rose the hundred horses and their great Coach, until the roof of the Little Emperor’s Palace with its bright yellow tiles looked only as big as a yellow autumn leaf—as a jasmine petal—as nothing at all! And along the Road of Stars they galloped, while notes of music sprayed from the wheels of the Coach, and, dropping to earth, gave the nightingales ideas for beautiful new songs. On through the sky and above the earth until the night was over, and at last, instead of a road, the hundred horses were galloping along a river. All along the river bank tall poplars rustled and whispered in the wind of the Coach’s passing, and little waves, stirred up by the horses’ hoofs, slapped against the small houses that rose from the water, small pink houses and blue houses and white red-roofed houses, each with its rowboat tied to its steps. White swans and green ducks rocked on the ripples, their feathers gilded by sunshine, for it was bright day now, and the rain that had been pouring down had stopped. It was bright day, and yet no one saw the Dream Coach except a little French boy, whose eyes were falling shut in one little pink cottage. “Philippe! Philippe!” the Driver called. “One last dream is left for you!” What was Philippe’s dream? That you shall hear. [Illustration] “Hold still then, my little monkey!” “But mother,” wailed Philippe, “I have the soap in my eye!”