Sleepy-head slept on, warm and comfortable in his furry coat, and the elf
began to feel annoyed with him for being so happy. He was always a great
mischief, and he could not bear to sit still for long at a time. Presently
he laughed a queer little laugh. He had got an idea! Putting his two small
arms round the stem of the toadstool he tugged and he pulled until, of a
sudden, snap! He had broken the stem, and a moment later was soaring in
air safely sheltered under the toadstool, which he held upright by its
stem as he flew.

Sleepy-head had been dreaming, oh, so cosy a dream! It seemed to him that
he had discovered a storehouse filled with golden grain and soft juicy
nuts with little bunches of sweet-smelling hay, where tired mousies might
sleep dull hours away. He thought that he was settled in the sweetest
bunch of all, with nothing in the world to disturb his nap, when gradually
he became aware that something had happened. He shook himself in his sleep
and settled down again, but the dream had altered. He opened his eyes.
Rain was falling, pit-a-pat, and he was without cover on a wet patch of
grass. What could be the matter? Sleepy-head was now wide awake. Said he,

"DEAR ME, WHERE IS MY TOADSTOOL?"

From these four instances we may, perhaps, deduce certain general
principles of adaptation which have at least proved valuable to those
using them.

These are suggestions which the practised story-teller will find trite.
But to others they may prove a fair foundation on which to build a
personal method to be developed by experience. I have given them a tabular
arrangement below.