The train moved off at once. Niggle lay back in his seat. The little engine puffed along in a deep cutting with high green banks, roofed with blue sky. It did not seem very long before the engine gave a whistle, the brakes were put on and the train stopped. There was no station, and no sign board, only a flight of steps up the green embankment. At the top of the steps there was a wicker gate in a trim hedge. By the gate stood his bicycle, at least, it looked like his, and there was a yellow label tied to the bars with Niggle written on it in large black letters.
Niggle pushed open the gate, jumped on the bicycle, and went bowling down hill in the spring sunshine. Before long he found that the path on which he had started had disappeared, and the bicycle was rolling along a marvelous turf. It was green and close; and yet he could see every blade distinctively. He seemed to remember having seen or dreamed of that sweep of grass somewhere or other. The curves of the land were familiar somehow. Yes: the ground was becoming level as it should, and now of course it was beginning to rise again. A great green shadow came between him and the sun. Niggle looked up and fell off his bicycle.
Niggle pushed open the gate, jumped on the bicycle, and went bowling down hill in the spring sunshine. Before long he found that the path on which he had started had disappeared, and the bicycle was rolling along a marvelous turf. It was green and close; and yet he could see every blade distinctively. He seemed to remember having seen or dreamed of that sweep of grass somewhere or other. The curves of the land were familiar somehow. Yes: the ground was becoming level as it should, and now of course it was beginning to rise again. A great green shadow came between him and the sun. Niggle looked up and fell off his bicycle.