"Come on everyone," called Gammon.
"But wait a minute," said Billy. "Who are you? You look like good things to eat."
"Who are we? We're bad things to eat," and joining hands in a circle about Billy they began to dance and sing.
THE SONG OF THE DREAM FOOD SPRITES.
Cream food, scream food,
We are the things for dream food;
Moan food and groan food,
Any of us alone would
Fill the tummy of one small boy,
And give him dreams—oh! joy, oh! joy.
Puddings and pies and cakes and jam,
Turkey and fish and meat and ham,
Candy and carrots and plums and lamb,
Boys will eat and stuff and cram.
We are the things,
We are the things,
The things that dreams are made of.
And as they sang "Fill the tummy of one small boy," they dropped hands, formed a long line, and one by one leaped on to Billy's stomach, bounded into the air, turned a double somersault and landed, laughing and shouting, on the ground on the other side, for all the world like acrobats in the circus.
"Please let me try," said Night Mare. "I promise not to run away."
"Oh! no, no, no," cried Billy. "Night Mare will kill me."
"That's a good idea," said Gammon; "shall we?"
"Not yet," answered Spinach; "I want to have some more fun before that happens."