The little Flying-Fish seated itself on its perch, and called out:
"It's nearly half-past three. We must rest. Everybody must rest. Let's go to sleep." And it, too, pulled down its eyelids with its left paw, buried its nose in a nightcap, and wrapped its wings round its head.
The Historian stretched out a hand, took the six hard-boiled eggs from the Hen, dropped them through a hole in his beak, put the hand of the clock back to zero, then he, too, shut his eyes.
"He sleeps," murmured Smaly and Redy.
Smaly tiptoed across to the Historian.
Dropped them through a Hole in his Beak
He was a curious sort of man, extremely thin, his face dominated rather than adorned by an immense beak, which apparently he could not open; and he had little twinkling eyes like an elephant's, which twinkled even more when they were shut than when they were open. He wore a sort of wrapper, trimmed with fur round the neck, sleeves, and legs. Neither Redy nor Smaly could quite decide what the Historian was made of, whether of Manchester pudding, of pie-crust, or gingerbread, and they did not dare try and taste him for fear of waking him up.
