"Am I awake, Willie? or am I dreaming?" he asked.
"Wide awake, papa," answered Willie.
"Then what is the meaning of this? _You_ seem to be in the secret: where
does this water come from? I feel as if I were in a fairy tale."
"Isn't it lovely?" cried Willie. "I'll show you where it comes from.
This way. You'll spoil your boots there. Look at the rhubarb-bed; it's
turned into a swamp."
"The garden will be ruined," said his father.
"No, no, papa; we won't let it come to that. I've been watching it.
There's no soil carried away yet. Do come and see."
In mute astonishment, his father followed.
As I have already described it, the ground was very uneven, with many
heights and hollows, whence it came that the water took an amazing
number of twists and turns. Willie led his father as straight as he
could, but I don't know how often they crossed the little brook before
they came to where, from the old stone shaft, like the crater of a
volcano, it rolled over the brim, an eruption of cool, clear, lucid
water. Plenteous it rose and overflowed, like a dark yet clear molten
gem, tumbling itself into the open world. How deliciously wet it looked
in the shadow I---how it caught the sun the moment it left the chamber,
grew merry, and trotted and trolled and cantered along!
"Is this _your_ work, Willie?" asked his father, who did not know which
of twenty questions to ask first.
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