And he couldn’t escape, for just as soon as he moved one chair away, another one took its place.
The chairs and tables moved nearer and nearer; and the gardener was so weary that he wanted to sink on the floor; but there was not room, for everything in the cottage piled itself right up against him so that he could not move.
The air grew thicker and thicker, and the night grew blacker and blacker, but not so black that he could not see the goblin coming toward him.
And the goblin flew straight to the gardener, flapped its heavy wings, and shouted at him:
“You’re cramped for room, are you?”
“I’m dying,” said the gardener.
“Then help the plants to live. Pull up the weeds, give the plants room, and you may live yourself,” said the goblin as he flew away in the darkness.
At this point the dream-elf, thinking his work well done, hastened back to Mount Fern.
“Some dreams,” said he to himself, “are good for a gardener, and I think this one will be.”
Very early the next morning the flower-elf and Slumber went into the garden to see what was happening there.