"But it is your mother among the clouds who makes your life beautiful, and the beauty of your life is the measure of your days."
While the boy reflected on these things they had reached the gates of the park, and they stole past the silent lodge on to the high road. A man was waiting there in the shadows, and when he saw the boy's companion he rushed out and seized him by the arm.
"So I've got you," he said; "I don't think I'll let you go again in a hurry."
The son of the moon gave a queer little laugh.
"Why, it's Taylor!" he said pleasantly; "but, Taylor, you know you're making a great mistake."
"Very possibly," said the keeper, with a laugh.
"You see this boy here, Taylor; I assure you he is much madder than I am."
Taylor looked at the boy kindly.
"Time you were in bed, Tommy," he said.
"Taylor," said the man earnestly, "this boy has made three phrases. If you don't lock him up he will certainly become a poet. He will set your precious world of sanity ablaze with the fire of his mother, the moon. Your palaces will totter, Taylor, and your kingdoms become as dust. I have warned you."