The child was so delighted that he could hardly believe his eyes, so
he tried it seven times, and each time it slipped in more easily than
before. But pleased though the boy was, he determined not to tell
anyone about it, particularly not his mother, who never could keep
anything from her neighbours.

Still, in spite of his resolutions, he could not hide altogether that
something had happened, and when he went in to breakfast his
mother asked him what was the matter.

'Oh, mother, I had such a nice dream last night,' said he; 'but I can't
tell it to anybody.'

'You can tell it to me,' she answered. 'It must have been a nice
dream, or you wouldn't look so happy.'

'No, mother; I can't tell it to anybody,' returned the boy, 'till it
comes true.'

'I want to know what it was, and know it I will,' cried she, 'and I
will beat you till you tell me.'

But it was no use, neither words nor blows would get the secret out
of the boy; and when her arm was quite tired and she had to leave
off, the child, sore and aching, ran into the garden and knelt
weeping beside his little sword. It was working round and round in
its hole all by itself, and if anyone except the boy had tried to catch
hold of it, he would have been badly cut. But the moment he
stretched out his hand it stopped and slid quietly into the scabbard.