other wasn't."
But as the days went by and he wished more and more that he could find the little whip and make sure that the tiny lions and tigers and elephants had been real, he used to go and sit down very hard on the red sled and say out loud ever so many times:
"It wasn't a dream—it wasn't—it wasn't—it wasn't one! and that would make him feel quite cheerful.
One quite beautiful morning, after the snow had gone away, he was
in his bedroom and he suddenly caught sight of something bright, shining under a wardrobe.
"I wonder what that is," he said, feeling his heart begin to beat. He crept to the wardrobe as if he thought the bright thing would get away if it heard him, and suddenly he dropped on his knees, thrust his arm far under the wardrobe, quite against the wall, and pulled out the bright thing—and it was the whip. The bright part was the gold handle. It had rolled out from under the pillow and had rested on the edge of the bed until it had been shaken off
