turtle-room itself. Surely, once inside, he could find some answer
to this puzzle of his childhood.

Breathless, he dashed through the doorway, fearing every minute that
some one would notice the open gates and close them before he could
enter. Just in front of the giant turtle he fell in a little heap on the
floor, which was covered inch-deep with dust. His face was streaked, his
clothes were a sight to behold; but Bamboo cared nothing for such
trifles. He lay there for a few moments, not daring to move. Then,
hearing a noise outside, he crawled under the ugly stone beast and
crouched in his narrow hiding-place, as still as a mouse.

"There, there!" said a deep voice. "See what you are doing, stirring up
such a dust! Why, you will strangle me if you are not careful."

It was the turtle speaking, and yet Bamboo's father had often told him
that it was not alive. The boy lay trembling for a minute, too much
frightened to get up and run.

"No use in shaking so, my lad," the voice continued, a little more
kindly. "I suppose all boys are alike--good for nothing but kicking up
a dust." He finished this sentence with a hoarse chuckle, and the boy,
seeing that he was laughing, looked up with wonder at the strange
creature.

"I meant no harm in coming," said the child finally. "I only wanted to
look at you more closely."

"Oh, that was it, hey? Well, that is strange. All the others come and
stare at the tablet on my back. Sometimes they read aloud the nonsense