He stretched lazily, rubbed his eyelids, scratched his head, and shivered once as a greeting to the early-morning mist.

“I must wake Chroma for the sunrise,” he said softly. Then he suddenly wondered what it would be like to lead the orchestra and to color the whole world himself.

The idea whirled through his thoughts until he quickly decided that since it couldn’t be very difficult, and since they probably all knew what to do by themselves anyway, and since it did seem a shame to wake anyone so early, and since it might be his only chance to try, and since the musicians were already poised and ready, he would—but just for a little while.

And so, as everyone slept peacefully on, Milo stood on tiptoes, raised his arms slowly in front of him, and made the slightest movement possible with the index finger of his right hand. It was now 5:23 A.M.

As if understanding his signal perfectly, a single piccolo played a single note and off in the east a solitary shaft of cool lemon light flicked across the sky. Milo smiled happily and then cautiously crooked his finger again. This time two more piccolos and a flute joined in and three more rays of light danced lightly into view. Then with both hands he made a great circular sweep in the air and watched with delight as all the musicians began to play at once.

The cellos made the hills glow red, and the leaves and grass were tipped with a soft pale green as the violins began their song. Only the bass fiddles rested as the entire orchestra washed the forest in color.

Milo was overjoyed because they were all playing for him, and just the way they should.

“Won’t Chroma be surprised?” he thought, signaling the musicians to stop. “I’ll wake him now.”

But, instead of stopping, they continued to play even louder than before, until each color became more brilliant than he thought possible. Milo shielded his eyes with one hand and waved the other desperately, but the colors continued to grow brighter and brighter and brighter, until an even more curious thing began to happen.

As Milo frantically conducted, the sky changed slowly from blue to tan and then to a rich magenta red. Flurries of light-green snow began to fall, and the leaves on the trees and bushes turned a vivid orange.

All the flowers suddenly appeared black, the gray rocks became a lovely soft chartreuse, and even peacefully sleeping Tock changed from brown to a magnificent ultramarine. Nothing was the color it should have been, and yet, the more he tried to straighten things out, the worse they became.

“I wish I hadn’t started,” he thought unhappily as a pale-blue blackbird flew by. “There doesn’t seem to be any way to stop them.”

He tried very hard to do everything just the way Chroma had done, but nothing worked. The musicians played on, faster and faster, and the purple sun raced quickly across the sky. In less than a minute it had set once more in the west and then, without any pause, risen again in the east. The sky was now quite yellow and the grass a charming shade of lavender. Seven times the sun rose and almost as quickly disappeared as the colors kept changing. In just a few minutes a whole week had gone by.

At last the exhausted Milo, afraid to call for help and on the verge of tears, dropped his hands to his sides. The orchestra stopped. The colors disappeared, and once again it was night. The time was 5:27 A.M.

“Wake up, everybody! Time for the sunrise!” he shouted with relief, and quickly jumped from the music stand.

“What a marvelous rest,” said Chroma, striding to the podium. “I feel as though I’d slept for a week. My, my, I see we’re a little late this morning. I’ll have to cut my lunch hour short by four minutes.”

He tapped for attention, and this time the dawn proceeded perfectly.

“You did a fine job,” he said, patting Milo on the head. “Someday I’ll let you conduct the orchestra yourself.”

Tock wagged his tail proudly, but Milo didn’t say a word, and to this day no one knows of the lost week but the few people who happened to be awake at 5:23 on that very strange morning.

“We’d better be getting along,” said Tock, whose alarm had begun to ring again, “for there’s still a long way to go.”

Chroma nodded a fond good-by as they all started back through the forest, and in honor of the visit he made all the wild flowers bloom in a breathtaking display.

“I’m sorry you can’t stay longer,” said Alec sadly. “There’s so much more to see in the Forest of Sight. But I suppose there’s a lot to see everywhere, if only you keep your eyes open.”

They walked for a while, all silent in their thoughts, until they reached the car and Alec drew a fine telescope from his shirt and handed it to Milo.

“Carry this with you on your journey,” he said softly, “for there is much worth noticing that often escapes the eye. Through it you can see everything from the tender moss in a sidewalk crack to the glow of the farthest star—and, most important of all, you can see things as they really are, not just as they seem to be. It’s my gift to you.”

Milo placed the telescope carefully in the glove compartment, and reached up to shake Alec by the hand. Then he stepped on the starter and, with his head full of strange new thoughts, drove out the far end of the forest.

The easy rolling countryside now stretched before them in a series of dips and rises that leaped up one side of each crest and slid gently down the other in a way that made stomachs laugh and faces frown. As they topped the brow of the highest hill, a deep valley appeared ahead. The road, finally making up its mind, plummeted down, as if anxious to renew acquaintance with the sparkling blue stream that flowed below. When they reached the floor of the valley the wind grew stronger as it funneled through the rocks, and directly ahead a bright-colored speck grew larger and larger.

“It looks like a wagon,” cried Milo excitedly.

“It isa wagon—a carnival wagon,” seconded Tock. And that’s exactly what it was—parked at the side of the road, painted bright red, and looking quite deserted. On its side in enormous white letters bordered in black was the inscription

“Perhaps if someone’s at home he might tell us how far we have to go,” said Milo, parking next to the wagon.

He tiptoed timidly up the three wooden steps to the door, tapped lightly, and leaped back in fright, for the moment he knocked there was a terrible crash from inside the wagon that sounded as if a whole set of dishes had been dropped from the ceiling onto a hard stone floor. At the same time the door flew open, and from the dark interior a hoarse voice inquired, “Have you ever heard a whole set of dishes dropped from the ceiling onto a hard stone floor?”

Milo, who had tumbled back off the steps, sat up quickly, while Tock and the Humbug rushed from the car to see what had happened.

“Well, have you?” insisted the voice, which was so raspy that it made you want to clear your own throat.

“Not until just now,” replied Milo, getting to his feet.

“Ha! I thought not,” said the voice happily. “Have you ever heard an ant wearing fur slippers walk across a thick wool carpet?” And, before they could answer, he went on in his strange croaking way: “Well, don’t just stand there in the cold; come in, come in. It’s lucky you happened by; none of you looks well.”

The faint glow of a ceiling lamp dimly illuminated the wagon as they cautiously stepped inside—Tock first, eager to defend against all dangers; Milo next, frightened but curious; and the Humbug last, ready at any moment to run for his life.