"Did the naughty puss frighten it?
Stwoke its fedders den .-- Stwoke it--stwoke it," he continued, smoothing down her hair.
"But _wouldn't_ it be nice," persisted Agnes, "to be so tall as the birds can make themselves with their wings?
Fancy having your head up there in the green leaves--so cool! and hearing them all whisper, whisper, about your ears, and being able to look down on people's heads, you know, Willie! I do wish I was a bird! I do!" But with Willie to comfort and play with her, she soon forgot her soaring ambition.

Willie, however, did not forget it.

If Agnes wished to enjoy the privacy of the leaves up in the height of the trees, why shouldn't she?
At least, why shouldn't she if he could help her to it.
Certainly he couldn't change her arms into wings, or cover her with feathers, or make her bones hollow so that the air might get all through her, even into her quills; but he could get her up into the tree, and even something more, perhaps.

He would see about it--that is, he would think about it, for how it was to be done he did not yet see.
Long ago, almost the moment he arrived, he had set his wheel in order, and got his waking-machine into working trim.

And now more than ever he enjoyed being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night--especially in the fine weather; for then, in that hushed hour when the night is just melting into the morn, and the earth looks as if she were losing her dreams, yet had not begun to recognise her own thoughts, he would not unfrequently go out into the garden, and wander about for a few thoughtful minutes.
The same night, when his wheel pulled him, he rose and went out into the garden.