Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Puss repeated this little rhyme to himself as he looked at a lovely star that shone in the heavens with a soft and silvery light.
"I always liked that little song," said Mother Goose. "I've heard it time and again. Mothers always sing that to their babies just before they go to sleep."
"Do they?" asked Puss. "Mine never did. She used to sing about little mice and birds."
Mother Goose laughed heartily. "It all depends on whose little baby you are," she said, "but I guess it all comes out all right in the end."
The gander said never a word. He was doubtless too busy propelling his great wings and steering with his tail to pay much attention to what his two passengers were saying.
I don't know whether there was a sign up like the ones they have in the cars, "Don't talk to the motorman," or not. At any rate, the gander observed the law, for he made no answer. On and on they went, through the night. Past cloud and star, over river and valley, hill and dale, swiftly and silently, for after these few remarks both Mother Goose and Puss grew very sleepy.
It must have been well on toward morning before they awoke. Nestled on a soft, feathery gander's back, with the wind singing lullabies as you travel swiftly underneath the stars, is quite sufficient to keep any one asleep. It was indeed a mighty fine cradle, and if the morning sun had not poked his golden fingers into Puss, Jr.'s, eyes he might still have been sound asleep.
"Mother Goose," he cried, touching the dear old lady gently on the shoulder, "we are getting very near the earth. It's time for you to wake up."