Mother Goose with her gray gander.

It was to the Inn I wished to come.

I floated on, and I would have floated past the Inn, and perhaps
have gotten into the Land of Never-Come-Back-Again, only I caught
at the branch of an apple-tree, and so I stopped myself, though
the apple-blossoms came falling down like pink and white
snowflakes.

The earth and the air and the sky were all still, just as it is
at twilight, and I heard them laughing and talking in the
tap-room of the Inn of the Sign of Mother Goose--the clinking of
glasses, and the rattling and clatter of knives and forks and
plates and dishes. That was where I wished to go.

So in I went. Mother Goose herself opened the door, and there I
was.

The room was all full of twilight; but there they sat, every one
of them. I did not count them, but there were ever so many:
Aladdin, and Ali Baba, and Fortunatis, and Jack-the-Giant-Killer,
and Doctor Faustus, and Bidpai, and Cinderella, and Patient
Grizzle, and the Soldier who cheated the Devil, and St. George,
and Hans in Luck, who traded and traded his lump of gold until he
had only an empty churn to show for it; and there was Sindbad the
Sailor, and the Tailor who killed seven flies at a blow, and the
Fisherman who fished up the Genie, and the Lad who fiddled for
the Jew in the bramble-bush, and the Blacksmith who made Death
sit in his apple-tree, and Boots, who always marries the