She wrapped herself in a cloud chosen from the sunset and, stepping into
her chariot, gave the signal to her birds and drove swiftly down, down
to the dim country of the King of Sleep.

Before she could reach the entrance to his palace, she had to drive
through field after field of poppies, red as the sunset she had just
left in the sky, for poppies give sleep to the people of Dreamland.

Somnus, the King of Sleep, lived in a deep, still cave, so dark that he
had never seen the rainbow or the sun. There was no gate; soft black
plumes and curtains served as doors. Here in the heart of Dreamland Iris
saw all about her strange, beautiful dreams.

There were dreams for children of toys and candies and plays; dreams for
men and women of all that they had ever wished for; dreams, dreams,
everywhere. But Iris did not like darkness any better than you and I do,
and she quickly gave an order for the King of Sleep to send the best
dream possible to the anxious Halcyone. Then back she drove over the
rainbow bridge, up, up to the bright palace in the clouds.

[Illustration: THE HEAD OF IRIS. From a frieze on the Parthenon.]

As soon as she had left the rainbow's track it faded away, but, even
before it was out of sight, a dream of her husband had come to Halcyone,
and Iris was happy.

Iris loved the water best of all things on earth. She always wore a
chain of raindrops for pearls, and a cloud for a robe. She had an army
of soldiers by each river bank. Men called the soldiers plants, but
their swords were always drawn for Iris, and their stately heads were