"Am I awake, Willie? or am I dreaming?" he asked.
"Wide awake, papa," answered Willie.
"Then what is the meaning of this? You seem to be in the secret: where does this water come from? I feel as if I were in a fairy tale."
"Isn't it lovely?" cried Willie. "I'll show you where it comes from. This way. You'll spoil your boots there. Look at the rhubarb-bed; it's turned into a swamp."
"The garden will be ruined," said his father.
"No, no, papa; we won't let it come to that. I've been watching it.
There's no soil carried away yet. Do come and see."
In mute astonishment, his father followed.
As I have already described it, the ground was very uneven, with many heights and hollows, whence it came that the water took an amazing number of twists and turns. Willie led his father as straight as he could, but I don't know how often they crossed the little brook before they came to where, from the old stone shaft, like the crater of a volcano, it rolled over the brim, an eruption of cool, clear, lucid water. Plenteous it rose and overflowed, like a dark yet clear molten gem, tumbling itself into the open world. How deliciously wet it looked in the shadow I—-how it caught the sun the moment it left the chamber, grew merry, and trotted and trolled and cantered along!
"Is this your work, Willie?" asked his father, who did not know which of twenty questions to ask first.
"Mostly," said Willie.