DUKE CASIMIR RIDES LATE Well do I, Hugo Gottfried, remember the night of snow and moonlight when first they brought the Little Playmate home.

I had been sleeping--a sturdy, well-grown fellow I, ten years or so as to my age--in a stomacher of blanket and a bed-gown my mother had made me before she died at the beginning of the cold weather.

Suddenly something awoke me out of my sleep.

So, all in the sharp chill of the night, I got out of my bed, sitting on the edge with my legs dangling, and looked curiously at the bright streams of moonlight which crossed the wooden floor of my garret.
I thought if only I could swim straight up one of them, as the motes did in the sunshine, I should be sure to come in time to the place where my mother was--the place where all the pretty white things came from--the sunshine, the moonshine, the starshine, and the snow.
And there would be children to play with up there--hundreds of children like myself, and all close at hand.

I should not any longer have to sit up aloft in the Red Tower with none to speak to me--all alone on the top of a wall--just because I had a crimson patch sewn on my blue-corded blouse, on my little white shirt, embroidered in red wool on each of my warm winter wristlets, and staring out from the front of both my stockings.