He climbed the gate and found himself in a field of clover.

It was a splendid big bed, and even had the night not been warm, he would not have hesitated to sleep in it.

He had never had a cold, and had as little fear for his health as for his life.

He was hungry, it is true; but although food was doubtless more delicious to such hunger as his--that of the whole body, than it can be to the mere palate and culinary imagination of an epicure, it was not so necessary to him that he could not go to sleep without it.

So down he lay in the clover, and was at once unconscious.
When he woke, the moon was high in the heavens, and had melted the veil of the darkness from the scene of still, well-ordered comfort.
A short distance from his couch, stood a little army of ricks, between twenty and thirty of them, constructed perfectly--smooth and upright and round and large, each with its conical top netted in with straw-rope, and finished off with what the herd-boy called a toupican--a neatly tied and trim tuft of the straw with which it was thatched, answering to the stone-ball on the top of a gable.