Chapter III

And then she found herself--in bed--wasn’t that a shame. She had been so happy sitting on the knee of the Man with the Growly Voice, so interested in his stories, then that _somebody_ (with the white cap and apron) had carried her off to bed. She couldn’t remember a thing about it, but of course that is the way it must have happened. Oh, if she could only find the Wishing Post, things like this would not happen, she’d see to that. What a wonderful thing it must be, this Wishing Post, and how she would love to see it--and--what a strange light was coming in the window. It was not morning, so it could not be sunlight, besides, sunlight is so bright. And it wasn’t a bit like moonlight, either. She grew very much interested, and sat up in bed to see. She was not at all afraid, for Maida was always a brave little girl, besides--comforting thought, if one _did_ call out, why, somebody (with a white cap and apron) was just in the next room. What a strange light--all pale and green and shimmering. My, isn’t that a long word! but it means the kind of light you see in dreams, and it seemed to come from under the window. Maida watched it as long as she could, but finally she crept out of bed, went to the window, and what do you think she saw outside--a really and truly flying machine. It was a long bag of cloth like a great big cigar, and underneath it was the dearest little wicker house something like a boat. She could see strange engines through the windows, and there were wings at the sides, and at the back a rudder. There was a steering wheel behind the wicker house, and beside it stood the Man with the Growly Voice. He looked up, saw her, smiled, and waved his hand.

“I’ve come to take you to the Wishing Post,” he said. Maida started to climb out of the window, but she thought better of it when the Man with the Growly Voice spoke again. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that you had better dress before we start? It will be rather chilly at the North Pole, with nothing on but a pink and white nightie.” How her fingers flew! She found all her clothes nicely piled on a chair beside her bed, and she dressed quicker than she ever dressed before, or since. Luckily her pretty white fur coat Aunt Mary had given her was hanging in the closet, and the cap beside it. She put them on, and as the coat reached to her feet she felt very warm and comfy. You will never know how quietly she opened the door. You will never know how “creepy” she stole down the stair. But just as she opened the big front door she happened to think of mama and papa and Aunt Mary. She thought they might be worried, so she sat down to write them a note. Maida could write very well for such a little girl, although her T’s and her F’s would persist in looking alike, or worse still, when she meant to make a W an M would hop into its place. Well, this note was the best thing she had ever written. She had no idea she could write so rapidly. All the letters made themselves properly and somehow got into the right place. Altogether, it was a splendid letter. As nearly as I remember, it ran something like this:

“Dear Mama, and Papa, and Aunt Mary:

“I was afraid you might be worried when you found me gone, and I was afraid to tell you because you might not let me go. I’ll be back in a day or two. I’ve only gone with a gentleman to find the North Pole and wish to be grown up. With dearest love, “MAIDA.”

She knew that when they got her note they wouldn’t be worried at all. Then she went out and closed the big front door behind her. The Man with the Growly Voice was waiting and he lifted her into the little wicker house. “This is your room,” he said, showing her into a little cabin, and it was just lovely; all cuddly and comfy and bright. The little brass bed shone and shone; the pretty mirror reflected her happy face. The lights danced and flickered--ah, in every way it was just exactly like what a room in a flying ship should be.

Then she noticed they were going up--they passed the roof, then the chimney, then the church steeple next door. The house grew smaller and smaller until she couldn’t tell it from the houses beside it. They floated over the Park and Maida could see the lights of the city underneath her--and--then over the river with the boats going out and coming in.

And she didn’t feel at all strange or in the least frightened. It all seemed perfectly natural and usual. A dreadful doubt assailed her. Suppose she were not awake. Suppose she was asleep and dreaming. “Excuse me,” she said timidly to the Man with the Growly Voice, “but will you please tell me your name?” “My name,” he growled in reply, “is Morse.” “Well then Mr. Morse,” she said, “tell me, please, honest to goodness cross your heart--am I awake?” And the Man with the Growly Voice crossed his heart and said, “Yes.” So that was settled, for of course he wouldn’t tell a story and say she was awake if she were asleep. Oh, what a happy little Maida, drifting--drifting far above the clouds, no more lessons or oatmeal porridge, or short frocks. Never again. Never would she have to go to bed at twilight. Traily, fluffy dresses and sit up nights and ice-cream--oh, lots and lots of ice-cream, for she was going to the Wishing Post and she would never come back till she had grown up.