AI-Generated Graded Readers 　　Masaru Uchida, Gifu University 　　 　　Publication webpage: 　　https://www1.gifu-u.ac.jp/~masaru/a1/ai-generated_graded_readers.html 　　 　　Publication date: March 22, 2026 　　 　　About This Edition 　　 　　This book is a simplified English adaptation created for extensive reading practice. 　　The text was translated from Japanese into English and simplified using ChatGPT for intermediate English learners as part of an educational project. 　　 　　Target reading level: CEFR A2-B1 　　 　　The adaptation aims to improve readability while preserving the narrative content and spirit of the original work. 　　 　　Source Text 　　 　　Original work: Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (銀河鉄道の夜) 　　Author: Miyazawa Kenji (宮沢賢治) 　　 　　Source: Aozora Bunko (青空文庫) 　　https://www.aozora.gr.jp/ 　　 　　Original Japanese text available at: 　　https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000081/card456.html 　　 　　The original work is in the public domain in Japan. 　　 　　Copyright and Use 　　 　　This simplified English edition is an educational adaptation intended for non-commercial use only. 　　 　　The source text is provided by Aozora Bunko, a digital library that makes Japanese public domain literature freely available. 　　 　　For information about Aozora Bunko and its usage policies, see: 　　https://www.aozora.gr.jp/guide/kijyunn.html 　　 　　This edition is an AI-assisted translation and simplification prepared for educational purposes. 　　 　　Disclaimer 　　 　　This edition is an independent educational adaptation and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Aozora Bunko.

　　Miyazawa Kenji, Night on the Galactic Railroad [Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru] (Simplified Edition, Adapted and Simplified from Japanese by ChatGPT)
　　
　　Part 1
　　
　　 “Now, can any of you tell me what this pale white thing really is?” the teacher asked. He stood by the blackboard and pointed at a large star chart that hung there for the class to see. Across the dark chart there was a wide white band, faint and cloudy, like a river of light running from top to bottom. Some people had once said it was a real river in the sky, and others had called it a stream of milk. The teacher looked from face to face and waited for an answer.
　　 Campanella raised his hand at once. After him, four or five other students raised their hands too. Giovanni also started to lift his hand, but he stopped in the middle of the motion and slowly pulled it down again. Long ago he had read in a magazine that the Milky Way was made of stars. But these days he was sleepy almost every day, and he had no time to read, and no books to read even if he wanted to. Because of that, it seemed to him that many things had grown unclear, as if a soft fog had come into his mind.
　　 The teacher noticed him at once. “Giovanni,” he said, “you know, do you not?” Giovanni stood up quickly because the teacher had called his name so clearly in front of everyone. But when he was on his feet, with all the other children looking at him, the answer that had seemed near a moment before moved far away. Zanelli turned around from the seat in front of him and gave a small laugh. At once Giovanni felt heat rise to his face, and his heart began to beat hard in his chest.
　　 “When we study the Milky Way with a large telescope,” the teacher said again, “what do we find that it is made of?” Giovanni thought, It is stars. He was almost sure of it. Yet he could not push the words out of his mouth. The room felt too bright, and the faces of the children around him felt too near. He stood there, red and helpless, as though even the floor under his shoes had begun to shake.
　　 For a short time the teacher seemed troubled. Then he turned his eyes toward Campanella and said, “Well then, Campanella.” Campanella, who had raised his hand so boldly only a moment before, stood up slowly from his seat. But he too said nothing. He looked shy and quiet, and he did not answer. The teacher stared at him with surprise for a moment, then quickly turned back to the chart and began to speak himself.
　　 “If we look at this cloudy white Milky Way through a fine large telescope,” he said, “we see that it is made of very many small stars. Giovanni, that is right, is it not?” Giovanni gave a small nod. He could not trust his voice, so he only moved his head. But while he stood there, tears began to fill his eyes. Yes, he had known it, and of course Campanella had known it too.
　　 Giovanni remembered clearly where they had learned it. Once, at the house of Campanella’s father, who was a doctor and knew many things, the two boys had looked through a magazine together. There had been a page about the Milky Way. Then Campanella had gone at once to his father’s study and brought back a large book. He had opened it to a page where the Milky Way was shown in a great dark picture full of countless white points, and the two boys had looked at it for a long, long time in silence. It had been so beautiful that Giovanni had felt he could fall into it.
　　 So Campanella could not have forgotten the answer. Giovanni knew that with all his heart. Then why had Campanella stayed silent? As Giovanni stood in the classroom, still hot with shame, he thought he understood. Lately he had worked hard morning and afternoon. At school he was tired, and he no longer spoke freely with the others, and even with Campanella he had grown quiet. Campanella must have seen all this and felt sorry for him, and so he had chosen not to answer, only so Giovanni would not stand alone in his shame. When Giovanni thought this, his chest filled with a deep pain, because he felt sorry for himself, and also for Campanella.
　　 The teacher went on with the lesson, not knowing what storm had passed through Giovanni’s heart. “Now,” he said, “if we think of the Milky Way as a true river, then each small star would be like a grain of sand or a little stone at the bottom of that river. And if we think of it as a great flow of milk, then it is even more like the name people give it. In that case, the stars would be like drops of fat floating in the milk.” The class sat quietly and listened. The white band on the chart seemed to grow deeper as the teacher spoke, as if the board itself opened into some far cold place.
　　 Then the teacher began to explain what filled that great heavenly river. He said that the space between the stars was not empty in the simple way people thought, but was a place through which light could travel. He said the sun and the earth also floated in that great space. He told them that, in a way, all of them were living inside the Milky Way itself. And when they looked out through that vast depth, the farther places seemed whiter because there were so many stars gathered there together. Giovanni listened with lowered eyes, but every word still entered him.
　　 Beside the teacher there was a large model. It was a thick glass lens with many shining grains inside it. The teacher pointed to it and said, “The shape of the Milky Way is something like this. Suppose that each of these shining grains is a star like our sun. Suppose our sun is near the middle, and the earth is close beside it. If you stood inside this and looked around at night, you would see only a few stars where the lens is thin, but many more where it is thick.” He spoke calmly, and his finger moved from one side of the model to the other.
　　 “That is why,” he continued, “some parts of the Milky Way look faint and others look bright and white. That is the idea accepted today.” The students watched him, some with interest, some only because they had to. Giovanni tried to fix the words firmly in his mind. He wanted not to lose them again. He wanted to be the kind of boy who could answer clearly when called upon. Yet at the same time he felt so tired that even holding himself straight in his seat seemed like work.
　　 The teacher said there was more to explain about the size of the Milky Way and the many stars inside it, but there was no time today. “We will speak of that in the next science class,” he said. “But tonight is the festival of the Milky Way, so all of you should go outside and look well at the sky.” His voice grew lighter when he said that, and some of the children began to smile. The lesson was over. For them, the thought of the night outside was already stronger than the thought of the classroom.
　　 At once the room filled with sound. Desk lids opened and shut. Books were stacked together. Notebooks slid across wood, and chairs moved, and the children rose one after another. Soon the whole class stood straight and bowed properly to the teacher. Then they turned and began to go out of the room in a restless stream. Giovanni moved with them, quiet as before, carrying in his heart the white river in the sky, the shame of that moment, and the silent kindness of Campanella.
　　
　　Part 2
　　
　　 When Giovanni came out through the school gate, he saw that seven or eight boys from his class had not gone home yet. They were standing together near a cherry tree at one corner of the yard, and Campanella was in the middle of them. Even from a little distance, Giovanni could guess what they were talking about. It was the night of the star festival, and they were probably making plans to go out together and find wild vine lanterns to float on the river. The group looked warm and easy, like a circle that had closed before Giovanni reached it.
　　 Giovanni did not slow down. He swung one arm wide and walked straight through the gate with hard, quick steps, as if he had some strong purpose and did not care about anyone behind him. But that was not really true. He knew very well that if he had not needed to work, he might have been standing there too, listening to the others and waiting for evening. That thought pressed on him for a moment, so he lifted his chin and kept moving. It was easier to walk fast than to let his feet stop.
　　 The town was already changing for the festival. At many doors people were hanging balls made from leaves of yew, and on branches of cypress they were fixing small lights that would shine after dark. Men and women moved in and out of houses with string, paper, and green branches in their hands. The streets felt full of quiet preparation, as if the whole town were breathing in before music began. Giovanni saw all this, but he did not stay to look long, because he still had work to do before he could even think about the night sky.
　　 He did not turn toward home. Instead, after going around three corners, he came to a large print shop and stepped inside. At the front there was a high desk, and behind it sat a man in a loose white shirt. Giovanni bowed to him, took off his shoes, and went up the wooden floor without a word. Then he opened the big door at the end and entered the workroom.
　　 Inside, although it was still daytime, electric lamps were already burning. Many printing machines turned with a heavy beating sound, over and over, so that the whole room seemed to shake with work. Men with cloths tied around their heads, and others with lamp shades over their eyes, were reading, counting, and calling out lines in voices that rose and fell like a strange song. Ink, hot metal, paper, oil, and dust all mixed in the air. Giovanni always felt small in that room, but he also felt that he must move quickly and not trouble anyone.
　　 He went to the third tall table from the entrance and bowed again to the man sitting there. That man searched in a shelf for a little while and then handed Giovanni a small slip of paper. “Can you pick out this much?” he asked. Giovanni took the paper at once, then bent down and pulled out a small flat box from under the table. He carried it to a bright corner where many lamps shone on a tall case full of tiny type pieces, and there he crouched down to begin his work.
　　 With a small pair of tweezers, he picked up one piece of type after another. Each one was as small as a grain of millet, and his eyes had to work hard to tell one from the next. He read the paper, searched the case, picked up the right piece, and laid it carefully in the box. Then he did the same thing again, and again, and again. After a while the movement of his fingers became steady, but his eyes soon began to burn.
　　 One worker in a blue apron passed behind him and said, “Well, magnifying-glass boy, good morning.” The words were not loud, yet several men nearby gave cold little laughs without even turning to look at him. Giovanni said nothing. He only wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and went on picking type. He had heard that name before, and it always made him feel as if something sharp had been pushed into his chest. Still, he kept working, because there was nothing else he could do.
　　 Time passed in the noise of the machines. Giovanni’s legs grew stiff from crouching, and his shoulders ached, but he did not stop until the box was nearly full. At last, some time after the clock struck six, he checked the pieces one more time against the paper in his hand. He wanted to be sure there was no mistake, because a mistake would mean trouble for someone else. Then he carried the flat box back to the man at the tall table. The man took it in silence, looked over it, and gave only the smallest nod.
　　 Giovanni bowed once more and went back out to the front desk. The same man in the white shirt was still there. Without a word, he placed a small silver coin into Giovanni’s hand. At that moment Giovanni’s face changed, as if a weak lamp inside him had suddenly grown bright. He bowed strongly, took up the bag he had left under the desk, and ran out into the street.
　　 Outside, the evening air felt wide and fresh after the heavy smell of the print shop. Giovanni began to whistle as he hurried along, not because all his sadness was gone, but because now he had a little money in his pocket and a little work behind him. That was enough to make him feel lighter for a few minutes. He stopped at a bakery and bought one loaf of bread. Then he bought a bag of sugar cubes, thinking at once of his mother and the milk she liked.
　　 After that he ran as fast as he could toward home. He held the bread and sugar carefully, but his feet moved in a wild, quick rhythm over the street. The town around him was still growing brighter with festival lights, and now and then he caught the smell of leaves, wood, and evening air. Yet in his mind there was already a small dark room, a sick mother under a white cloth, and the hope that he could bring her something good. So he ran straight on, with all his strength, toward the little house in the back street.
　　
　　Part 3
　　
　　 Giovanni came home at last to a small house in a back street. There were three doorways in a row, and his was the one on the far left. In old wooden boxes near the entrance, purple kale and asparagus were growing in a narrow line. The two little windows were still covered, and the whole place looked dim and quiet. Yet to Giovanni, this poor house was dear, because his mother was waiting inside.
　　 “Mother, I’m home now,” he called while pulling off his shoes. “Were you feeling worse today?” His voice was bright and strong, but under it there was worry, because he asked the same question almost every day. From inside, his mother answered in a soft voice that seemed tired and kind at the same time. “Ah, Giovanni, your work must have been hard again. But today was cool, and I have been feeling better all day.”
　　 Giovanni stepped up into the room and saw her lying near the entrance, resting under a white cloth. The room was dark and still, and the air inside had the weak sweet smell of sickness and summer evening. He went at once to the window and opened it so a little light and wind could come in. Then he turned back to her and said, “Mother, I bought some sugar cubes today. I thought I could put them in your milk.”
　　 “Ah, you eat first,” she said. “I do not want anything yet.” Even while she said it, Giovanni knew she was thinking not of herself but of him. He stood for a moment with the little bag in his hand and felt both proud and sad. Then he asked, “Mother, when did Sister come home?” He knew his sister had been there because small things in the room had already been put in order.
　　 “She came back around three,” his mother answered. “She fixed up many things around here before she went out again.” Giovanni looked about the room and saw that it was true. Small things had been moved into place, and a plate had been left out for him. “Did your milk not come today?” he asked after a moment. His mother sounded unsure when she answered. “Did it not come? Perhaps it did not.”
　　 “Then I will go and get it,” Giovanni said at once. “No, no,” she replied. “There is no need to hurry. You should eat first. Your sister made something with tomatoes and left it there for you.” At that, Giovanni brought the plate from the window and sat down with the bread he had bought. He ate quickly, biting bread and tomato one after another, because he was hungry, but also because he wanted to get up and do the next thing soon.
　　 After eating a little, he said suddenly, “Mother, I think Father will come home very soon.” His mother was quiet for a breath, then asked, “Yes, I think so too. But why do you think so today?” Giovanni swallowed and answered quickly, as if he had been waiting to say it. “Because this morning’s newspaper said the fishing in the northern sea was very good this year. If the catch was good, then Father must be coming back soon.”
　　 His mother did not answer at once. Then she said gently, “Yes, but perhaps your father was not out fishing.” Giovanni lifted his face with a kind of pain. “He was,” he said. “He must have been. Father could never do anything so bad that he would be put in prison. He could never.” He spoke with all the force in his heart, because he knew what people said, and because those words had followed him like a shadow.
　　 He went on speaking before the silence could return. “The big crab shell and the deer horns Father brought and gave to the school are still there now. They are in the room for science things, and even the older boys see them. Sometimes the teacher carries them into class.” He wanted to prove his father was a good man, a man who had brought back real things from the far north, not the kind of man children whispered about. His mother listened without stopping him, because she understood that this was not only talk. It was Giovanni trying to hold his father close in a town that pushed him away.
　　 “Your father said he would bring you a coat of sea-otter fur next time,” she said at last, perhaps to comfort him. But Giovanni gave a small, troubled smile. “Everyone says that to me,” he answered. “They say it in a way that makes fun of me.” His mother asked at once, “Do they say cruel things to you?” Giovanni looked down and rubbed his hand on his knee. “Yes,” he said. “But Campanella never says such things. When the others say them, he only looks sorry.”
　　 “His father and your father were close friends from the time they were little boys,” his mother said. “Perhaps that is why.” Giovanni nodded. “Yes. Father used to take me with him to Campanella’s house. Those days were good.” As he spoke, his face softened, and the room seemed less dark. “I often stopped there on my way home from school. Campanella had a little train that ran by an alcohol lamp. When the seven rails were joined into a circle, there were even poles and signals, and the signal light turned blue only when the train passed.”
　　 His mother listened with a quiet smile, and Giovanni continued, glad to remember. “One time the alcohol ran out, and we used oil instead. Then the little boiler turned black with soot.” “Did it really?” she said. “Yes,” Giovanni answered. “Even now, when I take the newspaper there in the morning, the whole house is still very quiet. It is so early then.” He paused and then added, “There is a dog there too, called Zauer. His tail is like a broom. When I go there, he makes a sound through his nose and follows me all the way to the corner. Sometimes he comes even farther.”
　　 His mother said, “That is because he likes you.” Giovanni gave a small nod and went on, “Tonight everyone is going to float wild vine lanterns on the river. I think the dog will go too.” “Yes,” his mother said. “Tonight is the festival of the Milky Way.” Giovanni looked toward the window, where the evening was slowly deepening. “I will go get the milk,” he said, “and while I do that, I will look at the festival too.”
　　 “Go then,” his mother answered, “but do not go into the river.” “No,” Giovanni said quickly. “I will only watch from the bank. I will be back in an hour.” But his mother, who knew how little joy came to him, said, “Stay out a little longer if you want. If you are with Campanella, I will not worry.” Giovanni answered at once, “Yes, I am sure I will be with him.” Whether he believed it or only wished it, even he could not have said.
　　 Then he stood up and closed the window because the air had become cooler. He cleared away the plate and the bread bag, moving quickly so his mother would not have to think of small work left undone. After that he put on his shoes with new energy, as if stepping into the evening might carry him out of all the heaviness of the day. “Then I will come back in an hour and a half,” he said. And with those words, he went out through the dark doorway into the festival night.
　　
　　Part 4
　　
　　 Giovanni went down the slope of the town with a mouth that looked as if it might be whistling, though in truth it was only lonely. The dark cypress trees stood in long black rows, and the evening seemed to grow deeper between them as he walked. At the bottom of the hill, a large streetlamp shone with a pale blue-white light. As Giovanni came closer and closer to it, the shadow that had stretched long and soft behind him changed its shape. It grew darker and clearer, and it moved from behind him to his side, lifting its legs and swinging its arms just as he did.
　　 Giovanni watched it and thought in that half-playful, half-serious way children sometimes do when they are alone. “I am a fine locomotive,” he said to himself. “This is a steep grade, so I am going fast now. In a moment I will pass the lamp. Look, now my shadow has turned like a compass and come around in front.” Thinking this, he strode forward with long steps and passed right under the light. At that very moment, someone came suddenly out from a dark side lane beyond the lamp.
　　 It was Zanelli, the same boy from the daytime, wearing a new shirt with a sharp collar. He crossed past Giovanni in a quick light way, almost like a flicker of white in the dark. Giovanni had barely begun to say, “Zanelli, are you going to float lanterns on the river?” when the other boy threw back a cruel shout over his shoulder. “Giovanni, your father is sending you a sea-otter coat!” The words struck him like cold iron.
　　 At once Giovanni felt his chest grow tight and cold, and it seemed to him that the air all around him gave a hard ringing sound. “What do you mean, Zanelli?” he cried back in a high voice. But Zanelli had already slipped into the shadow of a house with planted cypress and was gone. Giovanni stood a moment in the road, hurt and burning with anger. Then he began to think quickly and bitterly, as if the thoughts themselves were chasing one another.
　　 “Why does Zanelli say such things when I have done nothing to him?” he thought. “He runs like a mouse, and yet he says cruel things from the dark. He says them only because he is foolish.” With those thoughts beating in him, Giovanni walked on through the town. All around him the streets had been made beautiful with lights and branches, and the decorations shone so brightly that they almost seemed to belong to another world. But for Giovanni, even the beauty of the festival could not fully cover the sting of what had just happened.
　　 He passed a clockmaker’s shop where a bright neon light was burning. Inside, the red stone eyes of an owl opened and shut or turned at every second, and jewels moved slowly over a thick glass plate of deep sea color, shining like stars. From the other side, a copper centaur turned quietly toward him as though it were alive. In the middle of the display there was a round black star chart trimmed with blue asparagus leaves. Giovanni forgot himself for a while and stood looking straight at it.
　　 The chart was much smaller than the one in school, yet it held the sky of that very day and hour inside its oval frame. When the disk was turned, the stars that should appear in the sky came out there as well, and through the middle of them the Milky Way stretched from top to bottom like a pale smoky band. Lower down it looked faintly as if something had burst and a little steam were rising from it. Behind that stood a small telescope on three legs, shining yellow, and on the back wall there hung a large map where all the constellations had been drawn as strange beasts, snakes, fish, and jars. Giovanni stared so long that he began to think the whole sky must truly be crowded with such forms, and he wished with all his heart that he could walk among them forever.
　　 Then suddenly he remembered the milk for his mother. He left the shop at once and went on down the street. He was aware again of his poor tight coat at the shoulders, and because of that he forced himself to hold his chest out and swing his arms widely as he walked. The air was clear and pure like water, flowing through the open streets and into the shops. Every lamp was wrapped with dark green fir or oak branches, and the six plane trees in front of the electric company were full of small lights, so that the whole place looked like some city of mermaids under the sea.
　　 Children were everywhere, all in new clothes with fresh folds in them. Some were whistling the star-going song, and others ran calling, “Centaurus, let the dew fall!” Some burned blue magnesium fireworks, and all of them seemed to be playing with their whole hearts. But Giovanni lowered his head again before long. While the town around him grew brighter and louder, he was thinking of something completely different, and he hurried on toward the dairy. By the time he noticed where he was, he had reached the edge of town, where many poplar trees stood high against the starry sky.
　　 He entered the black gate of the milk shop and stood before the dim kitchen, where there was a smell of cows and evening dampness. Taking off his cap, he called, “Good evening.” But the house was silent, and it did not seem that anyone had heard him. So he stood up straight and called again, “Good evening, excuse me.” After a little time, an old woman came out slowly, as if she were unwell, and asked in a low voice what he wanted.
　　 Giovanni answered with all the strength he could gather. “Our milk did not come today, so I came to receive it.” The old woman rubbed the place under her red eyes and looked down at him. “There is no one here now, so I do not know,” she said. “Please come tomorrow.” Giovanni felt his heart sink at once, but he said quickly, “My mother is ill, so it must be tonight.” The woman only answered, “Then come back a little later,” and she already looked as if she were going away. “I see. Thank you,” Giovanni said with a bow, and then he stepped back out from the kitchen.
　　 He had just come to the corner where the streets crossed when he saw a loose crowd of dark shapes and pale shirts before the general store on the road toward the bridge. Six or seven schoolboys were coming that way, laughing, whistling, and carrying lanterns made from wild vine fruit. Giovanni knew those voices at once. They were boys from his own class. For a moment he started in fear and almost turned back, but then he changed his mind and walked forward with even greater force.
　　 He meant to say, “Are you going to the river?” but before the words could come, Zanelli shouted again, “Giovanni, your sea-otter coat is coming!” At once all the others took it up and cried the same thing after him. Giovanni turned bright red and hurried on, no longer knowing how he was walking. Then he saw that Campanella was among them. Campanella looked at him with a small sad smile, as if he pitied him and at the same time feared he might be angry.
　　 Giovanni could not bear that look. He turned his eyes away as if he were escaping from something and went past them in haste. A moment later, when Campanella’s tall figure had already passed, the boys began to whistle again in every direction. At the corner Giovanni looked back once and saw that Zanelli too had turned back to look, and Campanella, whistling high, was going on toward the dim bridge. Then Giovanni felt a loneliness so sharp that it could hardly be spoken. He broke suddenly into a run, and little children nearby, covering their ears and hopping on one foot, thought he was running for fun and shouted after him. But Giovanni did not stop. He ran straight toward the black hill.
　　
　　Part 5
　　
　　 Behind the pasture, the land rose in a long gentle hill. Its flat dark top lay under the Great Bear in the north and seemed lower than usual in the deepening night. Giovanni climbed the narrow path without stopping, almost running at first because the pain in his chest had not yet gone away. Dew had already begun to fall, and the small path shone white under the starlight as it passed through the little wood. Around him the grass was dark, the bushes took on strange shapes, and now and then small insects gave out a blue light among the leaves.
　　 As he climbed higher, Giovanni noticed that some leaves were lit from within by that weak blue shine. They looked so much like the wild vine lanterns the other boys had carried that he felt the old sting again. Yet here, away from the town, the hurt slowly changed into another feeling, quieter and deeper. The hill was dark, but it was not cruel. It seemed to let him come up alone without asking him anything.
　　 When he passed beyond the black pines and oaks, the sky opened all at once. There was the Milky Way, pale and white, spreading from south to north across the whole heaven. He could also make out the weather wheel pillar on the top of the hill, standing there in silence. All around, bellflowers or wild pinks, or some other field flowers he could not name, seemed to be opening with a smell so soft that it felt like something rising from a dream. One bird flew across the hill, crying as it went, and the lonely sound passed far into the night.
　　 Giovanni came to the foot of the pillar and threw himself down on the cold grass. His body was still pounding from the run, and his shirt, wet with sweat, quickly became cold against his skin. Below him the town lights shone in the darkness like the lamps of a palace at the bottom of the sea. From far away he could hear children singing, and bits of whistling and broken cries reached him now and then through the wind. The grass moved softly around him, and the whole hill seemed to breathe.
　　 He lifted himself a little and looked beyond the edge of town toward the wide dark fields. Then from somewhere in that darkness he heard the sound of a train. He imagined a small local railway running along the plain, with one row of red windows shining in the night. In those windows, he thought, there must be many travelers, some peeling apples, some laughing, some talking in easy voices as they went on together. When he pictured that bright little train full of people, he felt such sadness that he could hardly bear it.
　　 So he turned his eyes back to the sky. “They say that white band is all stars,” he thought. But no matter how long he looked, the heaven did not seem like the empty cold place his teacher had described in the classroom. On the contrary, the more he stared into it, the more it looked to him like a real field, with little woods and pastures hidden inside it. A blue star in the shape of a harp seemed to tremble, become three or four stars, then stretch out strangely like a mushroom. Even the town below began to look like a gathered cloud of stars or a great dim smoke rising into that same sky.
　　 Then Giovanni noticed that the weather wheel pillar behind him had changed. It no longer looked like the rough pillar on the hill, but like a far triangular signal standing in a steel-blue plain. At first it flickered in and out like a firefly, lighting and fading again and again. Then slowly it grew clearer and steadier until it stood firm and sharp, as if cut from blue metal and set upright in the field of the sky. Giovanni stared without moving, and his heart beat in a way that was half fear and half wonder.
　　 At that moment he heard a strange voice from somewhere call, “Galactic Station, Galactic Station.” At once everything before his eyes flashed bright. It was as if millions of tiny lights had been thrown into the sky at once and fixed there forever, or as if someone had overturned a hidden store of diamonds and scattered them across the darkness. Giovanni rubbed his eyes again and again, but the brightness did not go away. Instead, it changed into something even stranger and more real.
　　 He became aware that a small train had already been running on and on beneath him with a steady clattering sound. He was sitting inside it. It was truly a little railway carriage for travel at night, lighted by a row of yellow lamps, and he was looking out of the window. The blue velvet seats were almost empty, and on the gray varnished wall opposite him two large brass buttons shone quietly in the light. For a few moments he could only sit and stare, unable to understand how he had come there.
　　 Then he noticed a tall boy sitting in the seat just ahead of him. The boy wore a black jacket that looked almost wet in the light, and he had leaned out of the window to look outside. Something about the line of his shoulder seemed very familiar. Giovanni felt, with sudden force, that he must know who it was. Just as he started to lean out too, the boy drew back his head and turned around.
　　 It was Campanella. Giovanni felt such joy that he almost forgot to speak. He wanted to ask at once, “Campanella, were you here before I came?” but before he could say it, Campanella spoke first. “We all ran very hard,” he said, “but we were late after all. Zanelli ran a lot too, but he could not catch up.” Hearing that, Giovanni thought, “Yes, that is right. We came out together.” The thought entered him so naturally that for a moment he accepted it as true.
　　 “Should we wait somewhere for him?” Giovanni asked. Campanella answered, “Zanelli already went home. His father came to meet him.” As he said that, his face turned a little pale, and he looked for a moment as if something hurt him. Seeing this, Giovanni was filled with a strange feeling too, as if he had forgotten something important somewhere very near. He fell silent, and for a little while neither of them spoke.
　　 But soon Campanella seemed cheerful again and leaned toward the window with bright eyes. “Ah, what a pity,” he said. “I forgot my water bottle. I forgot my sketchbook too. But it does not matter. We will soon come to the Swan Station. I truly like swans. Even if they are flying far away over a river, I can always see them.” As he spoke, he turned a round map over and over in his hands, studying it eagerly. On the black surface, beautiful lights in blue, green, and orange showed stations, signals, springs, and woods, while a single railway line ran southward along the left bank of the Milky Way.
　　 Giovanni looked at the map with wonder. It was so fine and strange that it seemed made from some dark precious stone rather than paper. The Milky Way itself was drawn there in white, and the line of the railway went on through it as if it had no end. The sight gave Giovanni a curious feeling. He thought that he had seen this map somewhere before, though he could not say when or where. And as the little train kept running through the heavenly field with its quiet clatter, he felt more and more that he had already left the ordinary world behind.
　　
　　Part 6
　　
　　 “Where did you get that map?” Giovanni asked. “It looks as if it were made from black stone.” Campanella turned the round disk in his hands once more and answered in an easy voice, “I got it at the Galactic Station. Did you not get one too?” Giovanni looked at him in surprise. “Did I pass through that station?” he asked. Then he leaned over and pointed to the mark just north of the place called Swan. In some strange way, the whole map already felt familiar to him, though he still could not say why.
　　 “Yes, that is where we are now,” Campanella said. Then he looked outside and added, “Is that riverbank shining because of moonlight?” Giovanni followed his eyes. Along the pale bright edge of the Milky Way, the silver grass of the sky was waving everywhere, all together, making long soft lines like water under wind. “It is not moonlight,” Giovanni said. “It shines because this is the Milky Way.” As soon as he said it, joy rose inside him so strongly that he could hardly stay in his seat.
　　 He beat his heels lightly against the floor and leaned far out of the window. Then he whistled the star-going tune as high as he could and stretched himself upward with all his strength, trying to see the very water of the heavenly river. At first he could not make it out clearly. It all seemed too bright and too thin, as if light itself had taken the shape of a stream. But after he kept looking carefully, the river began to show itself more plainly before his eyes.
　　 The water was more clear than glass and lighter than anything Giovanni had ever seen. From time to time, perhaps because of the movement of his eyes, small purple waves seemed to run across it, and now and then it flashed like a rainbow in the dark. It flowed on and on without any sound. In the fields near it and far from it, many triangular signals stood shining with a cold pale light. The ones far away were small and sharp, often orange or yellow, while the nearer ones were larger, bluish white, and a little blurred in the air.
　　 Some of the shining marks were triangles, some had four sides, some looked like lightning, and some like chains. They stood all over the great plain, filling it to the edge of sight. Giovanni’s heart began to beat hard again, but now from excitement, not sorrow. He shook his head as if to clear it, and at once all the blue and orange lights seemed to tremble too, each one quivering like a living thing taking breath. “I have truly come to the fields of heaven,” he said.
　　 After a little while he leaned again toward the front of the train and said, “This train is not burning coal.” Campanella answered, “Perhaps it runs on alcohol or electricity.” The small beautiful train went on steadily through the waving silver grass of the sky, beside the river of the Milky Way and past the faint pale lights of the signs, and it seemed that it could go on forever. Giovanni felt that even if they traveled without end, he would not grow tired of looking.
　　 Then Campanella pointed out of the window and cried, “Look, gentian flowers are blooming. It is already autumn.” Near the edge of the track, among the short grass, there stood deep purple flowers so beautiful that they seemed carved from moonstone. “Shall I jump down, pick one, and jump back on?” Giovanni asked, his whole chest leaping with the thought. “It is too late,” Campanella said. “That one has already gone far behind.” Even before he finished speaking, another shining flower flashed by, and then another after that.
　　 Soon there were many of them. They came one after another, as if they were springing from the earth, or falling like rain before the train. Their yellow centers and purple cups passed in quick bright waves, and the line of triangular signs beside them glowed more and more strongly, as though the whole plain were beginning to burn in silence. Giovanni kept watching them until his eyes almost hurt from wonder. It seemed impossible that there could be so many beautiful things in one place.
　　 Then, all at once, Campanella spoke in a different voice. He seemed to gather all his courage and force the words out. “Will my mother forgive me?” he said. Giovanni turned toward him at once, but for a moment he could not answer. In that instant he remembered his own mother at home, lying in the dim room under the white cloth, perhaps thinking of him even now. Far away in the field he could see a single orange signal, small as a grain of dust, and for some reason he felt that his mother was there, beyond it.
　　 Campanella went on, speaking as if he were half to Giovanni and half to himself. “If my mother could become truly happy, I would do anything at all. But what is the thing that would make her happiest? I do not know.” His face looked as if he were holding back tears with all his strength. Giovanni was startled. “But nothing terrible has happened to your mother,” he said. Campanella shook his head a little. “I do not know,” he answered. “But if a person does what is truly good, then that must be the greatest happiness. So I think my mother will forgive me.”
　　 He looked as though he had already decided something deep inside himself. At that very moment the whole carriage grew suddenly white and bright. Giovanni looked out and saw a sight so splendid that he forgot even to breathe. On the glittering bed of the Milky Way, whose stones seemed made from diamonds, dew, and every shining thing in the world, the water flowed without sound and almost without shape. In the middle of that flow there rose an island, pale blue and full of a quiet light, as though a halo had fallen over it.
　　 On the flat top of the island stood a great white cross. It was so clean and sharp that it seemed cast from frozen polar cloud and crowned with a still golden circle of light. “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” voices rose from the front and back of the carriage. Giovanni turned and saw that the travelers had all stood up. Some held black Bibles against their chests, some wore crystal rosaries, and all had folded their hands and were praying toward the cross. Without thinking, Giovanni and Campanella also stood up straight. Campanella’s cheeks shone beautifully in the white light, red and clear like bright apples.
　　 Slowly the island and the cross moved behind them. On the opposite bank, pale silver mist drifted and brightened, and from time to time the silver grass there swayed in the wind and blurred like breath on glass. Here and there many gentian flowers appeared and vanished among the grass like soft fox-fire. For a short time the line of reeds hid the river from the train, and the island showed itself once or twice again behind them, smaller each time, until it looked like a tiny painted shape far away. Then at last it disappeared completely.
　　 Giovanni became aware that behind them there sat a tall nun-like woman in a black covering, with round green eyes lowered in deep attention, as if she were still listening to some word or voice coming from the vanished island. The other travelers quietly returned to their seats, and the two boys sat down as well. Their hearts were full of a new feeling, something like sorrow, yet not the same as sorrow. Neither of them could explain it clearly. After a little silence, one of them said softly, “We will soon come to the Swan Station.” And the other answered, “Yes. We should arrive exactly at eleven.”
　　
　　Part 7
　　
　　 Almost at once, the green light of a signal and a pale white post flashed past the window. Then, under the carriage, there passed a dim light by the points, dark and yellow like a weak sulfur flame. The train began to slow little by little. Ahead of them a row of platform lamps appeared, beautiful and evenly spaced, and as the train moved closer, the lights grew larger and spread wide before their eyes. In a few moments the carriage came to rest directly in front of the great clock of Swan Station.
　　 The face of the clock looked fresh and cold in the autumn night. Its two blue-steel hands stood clearly at eleven. All at once the travelers rose and got down from the train, so quickly that the carriage became empty almost at once. Under the clock were written the words, “Twenty Minutes Stop.” Giovanni looked around the quiet carriage and said, “Shall we get off too and have a look?” Campanella answered at once, “Yes, let us go.”
　　 The two boys sprang up together, ran out through the door, and hurried toward the ticket gate. But when they reached it, they found only one bright lamp burning with a faint purple color. There was no stationmaster, no porter, and no one at all to check tickets or speak to them. The whole place was so still that it felt less like a station than a picture of a station left standing after people had gone away. Giovanni looked around once more, but there was truly not even a shadow of anyone.
　　 They stepped out into a small square in front of the station. Around it stood ginkgo trees that looked as if they had been made from crystal work, each branch hard and shining in the white light. From the square a broad road ran straight ahead into the blue brightness of the Milky Way. The travelers who had gotten off before them had already disappeared somewhere, and there was not one figure left in sight. So the boys started down the white road side by side, saying nothing for a little while.
　　 As they walked, their shadows spread in every direction in a strange and wonderful way. They were like the shadows of two pillars standing inside a room with windows on all four sides, or like the spokes of two wheels thrown out across the ground. Giovanni stopped once and looked at them with surprise, then laughed softly and went on. Before long the road brought them to the same beautiful riverbank they had seen from the train. It shone so cleanly that it seemed not like earth at all, but like some bright shore in a dream.
　　 Campanella stooped and took a handful of the shining sand. He spread it on his palm and rubbed it gently with one finger, listening to the little sound it made. “This sand is all crystal,” he said in a dreamy voice. “There is a small fire burning inside it.” Giovanni answered, “Yes, that is true,” though even while he spoke he wondered where he had ever learned such a thing. The words came from him as if he had known them long ago and forgotten only for a little while.
　　 The pebbles along the bank were all clear and bright. Some looked like crystal, some like yellow topaz, some were bent and folded in fine broken lines, and some gave off a pale blue-white light from their edges, like mist frozen inside stone. Giovanni ran to the water and put in his hand. The strange river of the Milky Way was clearer than any water he had ever seen, almost as if it were lighter than water itself. Yet he knew it was flowing, because the part of his wrist beneath the surface shone like silver, and the little waves that touched his skin rose in soft phosphorescent light and seemed to burn for a moment before fading.
　　 When Giovanni looked upstream, he saw below a cliff thick with silver grass a stretch of white rock lying flat along the river, smooth and wide like a field for games. On that rock there were five or six small figures, standing, bending, and moving around as though they were digging something out or burying something again. From time to time a tool flashed bright in their hands. “Let us go there,” the two boys cried almost at the same moment, and they began to run toward that place without another word.
　　 At the entrance to the white rocky ground there stood a smooth sign like glazed pottery. On it were written the words “Pliocene Coast.” Along the farther bank there were thin iron rails set here and there, and also neat wooden benches, as if people were meant to come and look quietly at the place. Campanella suddenly stopped and picked up something long, black, and pointed from the rock. It looked a little like a walnut, though much larger and stranger than any walnut Giovanni had seen. “Look, this is odd,” he said. “There are many of them.”
　　 Giovanni crouched down at once. “It really is like a walnut,” he said. “There are lots of them. They did not float here. They are inside the rock itself.” Campanella turned one over in his hand and said, “It is very big, almost twice the size of an ordinary one. And it is not damaged at all.” Then Giovanni looked toward the workers again and said, “Come quickly. They must be digging up something important.” So the boys kept the dark rough nuts in their hands and went on toward the men.
　　 On their left the waves came softly to the shore, shining like gentle lightning. On their right the cliff was full of silver grass that looked as if it had been made from silver and shells together, and all its long heads swayed in the wind. As the boys came nearer, they saw a tall man who looked like a scholar. He wore large strong glasses and long boots. While writing quickly in a notebook, he shouted one order after another to three assistants who were working with picks and scoops.
　　 “Do not break that part,” he cried. “Use the scoop, the scoop. No, from a little farther away. Careful now. Why are you so rough?” When Giovanni looked closely, he saw that out of the soft white rock there lay half uncovered the great pale bones of some enormous beast. It seemed as if the creature had once fallen on its side and been crushed there. Nearby there were also about ten square stones that had been cut cleanly out, each marked with a number, and on them were the prints of split hooves.
　　 The scholar turned and his glasses flashed. “Are you here to look around?” he asked. Then, without waiting long, he added, “You found many walnuts, did you not? They are from about one million two hundred thousand years ago. Quite new, really.” Giovanni and Campanella listened in wonder. The man went on quickly, speaking as if his thoughts were running faster than the words. “In those days this place was a shore. Below this level we also find shells. Where the river is flowing now, salt water once came and went with the tide.”
　　 He pointed toward the half-buried skeleton. “And this beast, this is called Bos, an ancestor of the cow. There were many of them long ago. No, no, not with the pick,” he shouted suddenly to one of the men. “Use the chisel carefully. We need this as proof.” Giovanni asked, “Is it for a specimen?” The scholar shook his head. “No, not only that. For proof. To us this is a fine thick layer of earth made more than a million years ago, and many signs show it. But we must know whether those who are different from us would also see it as a layer of earth, or whether they would see wind, water, or empty air. Do you understand?” Before Giovanni could answer, the man had already rushed off again, calling to his workers.
　　 Campanella compared the map with his watch and said quietly, “It is time. We should go.” Giovanni bowed politely and said, “Then please excuse us.” The scholar answered, “Yes, yes, good-bye,” but even as he spoke he was already walking from place to place again, watching the work. So the two boys turned and ran back over the white rock with all their strength so they would not miss the train. They ran like the wind, and it was wonderful, because neither of them became short of breath, and their knees did not grow hot or weak.
　　 As he ran, Giovanni thought that if he could move like this forever, he could run across the whole world. Soon they passed again by the bright riverbank, and the purple lamp of the ticket gate grew larger and larger ahead of them. In only a little while they were back in their own seats in the carriage, side by side, looking out from the window toward the place they had just visited. Outside, Swan Station and the crystal shore were already beginning to drift away into the white and blue night.
　　
　　Part 8
　　
　　 The train had already carried them away from the white shore and the pale rocks. Giovanni and Campanella sat in their old seats again and looked out of the window at the place they had just visited. The bright riverbank slowly moved farther away, and the blue and white world outside became one long quiet flow once more. Then, from just behind them, they heard an adult voice, rough like dry grass and yet somehow kind. “May I sit here?” it asked.
　　 They turned at once. The man standing there had a bent back, a red beard, and a worn brown coat that looked old and broken at the edges. Over his shoulders he carried two bundles wrapped in white cloth. Giovanni pulled his shoulders in a little and answered politely, “Yes, of course.” The man smiled faintly inside his beard, lifted the bundles up to the rack above, and sat down with careful slow movements, as if he did not want to trouble anyone.
　　 Giovanni felt, for no clear reason, a sadness come over him again. So he said nothing and fixed his eyes on the clock across from him. Far ahead in the train, a sound like a glass whistle rang out softly. At the same time the train began moving again, so gently that it felt more like floating than riding. Campanella looked up at the ceiling because a black beetle had come to rest near one of the lamps, and its shadow, made large by the light, trembled on the roof of the carriage.
　　 The red-bearded man watched the two boys with a smile that seemed both friendly and lonely. Outside, the silver grass and the river flashed by the window one after the other as the speed of the train slowly increased. Then, after a little hesitation, the man asked, “Where are you two going?” Giovanni felt shy at once, but he still answered, “We are going as far as the train goes.” The man nodded as if he liked that answer very much. “That is fine,” he said. “This train truly does go anywhere.”
　　 Campanella asked back so suddenly that it almost sounded like a challenge, “And where are you going?” Giovanni nearly laughed, and a man on the far side, wearing a pointed cap and a large key at his belt, glanced over and smiled too. Campanella turned a little red and smiled as well. But the red-bearded man was not offended. “I get off very soon,” he said. “I make my living catching birds.”
　　 “What birds?” Giovanni asked. “Cranes, geese,” the man said. “Herons too, and swans.” Campanella leaned forward. “Are there many cranes?” The man nodded at once. “Plenty. They have been crying for some time now. Did you not hear them?” The boys listened carefully. Between the clattering of the train and the sound of the wind in the silver grass, they began to hear a soft rolling sound, like water bubbling out from a spring.
　　 “How do you catch them?” Giovanni asked. The man answered with complete seriousness, as though he were describing the most ordinary work in the world. He said that herons came from the sand of the Milky Way and always returned to the river. So he waited by the bank, and when they came down with their legs stretched under them, he pressed them at the very instant before their feet touched the ground. Then, he said, they hardened at once and died peacefully, and after that all that remained was to press them flat like leaves.
　　 “You make pressed herons?” Campanella asked. “As specimens?” The man shook his head. “Not specimens. People eat them.” Campanella tilted his head in disbelief. “That is strange,” he said. “Strange? Not at all,” the man replied. Then he stood up, took one of the cloth bundles down from the rack, and quickly unwrapped it. “Here,” he said. “Look. I caught them only a moment ago.”
　　 The two boys could not help crying out. There, laid in order, were about ten white herons, shining as brightly as the great northern cross they had seen before. Their black legs were folded in, their bodies were made flat, and they looked almost like carved pictures. Campanella touched one gently on its closed white eye. “Its eyes are shut,” he said. Even the long white feathers on its head were still there, sharp and fine like little spears.
　　 The man wrapped the bundle up again and said that geese sold even better. Then he opened the second bundle and showed them flat shining geese, yellow and pale blue and bright as little lamps. “These can be eaten at once,” he said. “Please, try some.” He pulled gently on one yellow leg, and it came off cleanly, as though made of chocolate. Giovanni took a piece and tasted it. At once he thought, This is candy after all. It was even better than chocolate, but because the man seemed so sincere, Giovanni felt sorry for quietly doubting him while still eating his gift.
　　 The bird catcher offered them more, and Giovanni wanted it, but he said, “No, thank you,” out of politeness. Then the man offered some to the cap-wearing man with the key. That man lifted his hat a little and refused with thanks, saying he should not take what belonged to another man’s trade. The two adults began talking about the year’s migrating birds, and the man with the key said there had been so many that complaints came in by telephone because the birds covered the lighthouse beam when they passed. As he spoke, a broad light suddenly fell across the carriage from the open plain outside, because the grass by the river had ended for a while.
　　 Campanella had still not forgotten his earlier question. “Why are herons more trouble than geese?” he asked. The bird catcher turned back and explained that herons had to be hung ten days in the light of the Milky Way, or buried several days in the sand, before the dangerous part left them and they became fit to eat. Then Campanella asked in a firm clear voice, “These are not really birds. They are only candy, are they not?” At once the man looked flustered and jumped up. “Ah, I must get off here,” he said. And before the boys fully understood what happened, he was gone.
　　 They looked at one another in surprise. The man with the key only stretched himself and grinned, then peered out of the side window. Giovanni and Campanella did the same. There, on a wide patch of little shining field-flowers, stood the bird catcher, bright under the yellow and blue light, holding out both arms and staring up at the sky with a grave face. Then, almost at once, white herons came pouring down from the purple-blue sky like snow, crying as they fell. The bird catcher caught their black legs one after another and pushed them into a cloth bag, where they flashed blue like fireflies for a moment, then turned white and shut their eyes.
　　 Yet many birds escaped his hands and landed safely on the shining sand. Whenever that happened, they seemed to melt the moment their feet touched the ground. Their bodies flattened, spread out like hot metal poured from a furnace, and for a short time the form of the bird remained on the sand before fading into the color of the riverbank. After he had caught about twenty, the bird catcher suddenly threw up both hands like a soldier struck by a bullet. In the next instant he was gone from the field. And at once his voice came from Giovanni’s side again, cheerful and familiar, saying how fine it felt to earn just enough to suit one’s body exactly.
　　 When Giovanni turned, the man was already beside them again, neatly arranging the herons he had just caught. Giovanni asked how he had come back so quickly, but the man only said, “I came because I meant to come.” Then he asked the boys, “And where have you come from?” Giovanni tried to answer, yet all at once he found that he could not remember. Campanella too went red and tried to think, but he could not say it either. The bird catcher nodded easily, as though he understood. “Ah,” he said, “from far away, then.”
　　 Soon after that, he pointed out of the window. “Now this is the end of the Swan district,” he said. “Look there. That famous building is the Albireo Observatory.” In the middle of the Milky Way stood four large dark buildings. On the flat roof of one of them two great transparent balls, one blue like sapphire and one yellow like topaz, turned slowly in rings, joining and parting and making green lens-shapes in the air. The sight was so beautiful and strange that the boys forgot the bird catcher for a little while and stared without speaking.
　　 The man had just begun to explain that the machine measured the speed of the water when a tall conductor in a red cap appeared beside their seats as if from nowhere. “Tickets, please,” he said. The bird catcher silently handed over a small slip. Then the conductor looked toward the boys. Campanella calmly took out a little gray ticket and gave it to him. Giovanni became troubled at once and put his hand into his pocket in confusion. There he touched a large folded paper, green in color, about the size of a postcard, though he did not remember ever having seen it before.
　　 With no better idea, he handed it to the conductor. The conductor straightened himself, opened the green paper carefully, and read it with great care, even adjusting the buttons of his coat as he did so. The lighthouse man leaned up from below and stared hard at it too. Seeing that, Giovanni began to feel with growing warmth that perhaps it was some sort of certificate after all. When the conductor finally asked whether he had brought it from the third dimension, Giovanni could only answer, half laughing in relief, “I do not know what it is.”
　　 “Very good,” the conductor said. “You will reach the Southern Cross around the third hour.” He returned the paper and went away. At once both boys bent over it, eager to know what it was. But the strange letters printed among the dark curling patterns seemed to pull the eyes inward the longer they stared. Then the bird catcher glanced at it from the side and spoke with sudden alarm and admiration. He said it was an extraordinary ticket, a pass that could go not only to heaven, but anywhere at all, and that with such a pass they could travel as far as they wished even on this incomplete fourth-dimensional Galactic Railroad.
　　 Giovanni turned red and folded the paper quickly, putting it back into his pocket. He said once more that he did not understand it. Then he and Campanella looked out of the window again, because both of them felt strangely embarrassed. Even so, Giovanni could tell that the bird catcher was still glancing at them from time to time, as if he could not stop thinking about the pass they carried.
　　
　　Part 9
　　
　　 “We will soon come to Eagle Station,” Campanella said, comparing the map in his hand with the three pale blue signal marks across the river. But Giovanni was hardly listening. All at once he felt deeply sorry for the bird catcher. He thought of the man happily catching herons, wrapping them in white cloth, and then staring at another person’s ticket with surprise and praise. The more Giovanni thought of him, the more he felt that he would gladly have given that man his food, his things, anything at all, and if it would bring the man true happiness, he would even have stood for a hundred years on the shining bank of the Milky Way catching birds in his place.
　　 He wanted to turn and ask, “What do you truly want most?” Yet the question seemed too sudden, and while he struggled to find gentler words, he looked back. The seat was empty. The white bundles on the rack above were gone as well. Giovanni quickly looked out the window, thinking the man might be standing somewhere outside, legs apart, eyes raised, waiting again for the birds. But there was nothing there except the beautiful pale sand and the long waves of white silver grass.
　　 “Where did he go?” Campanella said in a distant voice, as if he too had only just noticed the loss. “Where could he have gone?” Giovanni answered. “And where shall we ever meet him again? I should have said something to him. I should have.” Campanella nodded sadly. “Yes. I think so too.” Giovanni lowered his eyes and added in a low voice, “At first I felt as if he were in the way. That makes me feel terrible now.” It was the first time he had ever spoken so openly of such a strange feeling.
　　 Then Campanella lifted his head and looked around with wonder. “It smells like apples,” he said. “Did I begin to think of apples, and that is why?” Giovanni breathed in too. “It really does smell like apples,” he answered. “And wild roses too.” That was odd, because it was autumn, and there should have been no wild rose flowers now. Even while he was thinking this, something changed in the carriage again, as often happened on that strange train.
　　 Suddenly a little boy of about six was standing there near them. His black hair shone, his red jacket hung open, and his whole body shook as though from cold and fear. Beside him stood a tall young man in a neat black suit, holding the child’s hand firmly, like a tree standing in strong wind. Behind the young man was a girl of about twelve with soft brown eyes. She wore a black coat and held tightly to his arm while looking out the window in wonder.
　　 “Where are we?” the girl said. “How beautiful it is.” The young man looked from the sky to the children with a face full of joy and pain together. “Ah, this is heaven,” he said. “We have come to the sky. We are going to God. Look there. Those signs are the signs of heaven. There is nothing more to fear.” Yet even while he spoke so brightly, his face was tired, and deep lines stood on his forehead. Then he seated the little boy beside Giovanni and gently showed the girl the seat beside Campanella.
　　 The boy had scarcely sat down when he began to complain in a broken voice. “I want to go to my older sister,” he said, looking toward the young man across the aisle. The young man gazed at the child’s wet curled hair with a sorrow too deep for easy words. Then the girl covered her face with both hands and began to cry softly. The young man spoke to them both very kindly. He said their mother had long been waiting for them, thinking of them day and night, wondering what songs the boy might be singing and how they might look when they came to her.
　　 “But I should not have gotten on the ship,” the little boy said. “Yes,” the young man answered, “but look outside. See that splendid river. All summer, when you sang before sleeping, did you not see a white shine from the window? It was there. It was this very place.” He told them they were now traveling to a place full of light, good smells, and noble people, and that those who had taken the boats instead would surely be saved and return home to the ones waiting for them. As he comforted the two children, his own face slowly began to shine with new peace.
　　 At last the lighthouse keeper, who had been listening with growing understanding, asked where they had come from and what had happened to them. The young man gave a faint smile and told the story. Their ship had struck an iceberg in deep fog. Because the boats on one side were already ruined, there was not room for all. He had tried with all his strength to save these two children, yet he had also felt that perhaps the truest happiness would be to go together before God. He had struggled between duty, pity, and fear while the ship sank under them.
　　 He said that someone had thrown a life buoy, but it slid away. So he had seized a grating on the deck and held the children close, determined to float as long as possible. Then voices had risen in hymn, many voices in many languages all at once. A great sound had followed, and the water had taken them. When he became aware again, they were already here on the train. “Their mother died two years ago,” he added gently. “And I am sure the boats were saved.” As he spoke, quiet prayers rose here and there in the carriage. Giovanni and Campanella felt their eyes grow hot.
　　 Giovanni lowered his head and thought of the far northern sea. Somewhere there, he felt, a man was working with all his strength in cold wind and freezing spray, fighting waves and darkness in a small ship. Giovanni did not know clearly whom he meant, yet he felt deep pity and guilt toward that unknown worker. “What is happiness?” he thought. “What should I do for another person’s true good?” The lighthouse keeper seemed to answer that hidden question when he said softly that even the hard climbs and descents of life are steps toward true happiness, if one is walking on the right road. The young man answered like one in prayer, “Yes. Even sorrow is part of the will that leads to the greatest happiness.”
　　 By then the two children had fallen asleep against the seats, and at some point soft white shoes had appeared on the little boy’s once bare feet. The train went on beside the bright phosphorescent river. Out one window the plain looked like a magic lantern picture, full of hundreds and thousands of signals of many shapes and sizes, and from the horizon faint smoke-like lights rose one after another into the bellflower-colored sky. The clear wind that came through the carriage was full of the smell of roses. Then the lighthouse keeper, who now held a great heap of splendid apples colored red and gold in both hands, turned to the others and offered them around.
　　 The young man stared in astonishment. He asked where such wonderful apples had come from. The keeper urged him to take one, and then he kindly sent one each to Giovanni and Campanella as well. Giovanni stood and thanked him, though he was a little annoyed at first to be called “young masters.” The keeper then placed apples quietly on the knees of the sleeping children. When the little boy woke and cried that he had dreamed of his mother smiling in a room full of books, he was overjoyed to find a real apple waiting for him. Soon both children were wide awake, and the peels of the fruit, as they fell in curls toward the floor, faded away like smoke before touching it.
　　 Outside, a blue forest stood across the river with red round fruit shining among the branches. In its center rose a tall signal tower, and from the woods came music so beautiful that it melted into the wind. The girl cried out in delight at the dark birds lined up above the pale riverside light. Campanella corrected her quietly and said they were magpies, not crows, and Giovanni could not help smiling. Soon hymns began again from far back in the train, and everyone, including Giovanni and Campanella, found themselves singing. The forest drifted slowly away, and far above it peacocks flashed like opening and closing fans.
　　 Then the river split in two around a dark island. On the island stood a high signal tower, and on top of it a man in loose clothes and a red cap waved red and blue flags toward the sky. When he lifted the blue flag, countless birds rushed across the vast bellflower-colored heaven like living rain. When he switched to red, they stopped. A girl leaned from the window and spoke to Giovanni about the beauty of the sky and birds, but Giovanni, still sore from old loneliness, kept his mouth shut and only stared upward. Campanella answered her instead, saying that the signalman must be guiding the migrating birds.
　　 After a time the train left the river and ran along high cliffs. Fields of giant corn spread to the horizon, their leaves bright with dew like red and green jewels. Giovanni’s mood slowly improved, and when blasting in the river threw shining salmon and trout high into the air, he became cheerful again at once. He laughed, spoke freely with the girl, and cried out that this was the finest journey he had ever taken. At last a great red fire rose on the far bank, clear as ruby and burning without sound. The girl told the story of the scorpion who had once prayed that its body might truly be used for the happiness of others, and Giovanni listened in silence while the red fire blazed on and on.
　　 As that fire drifted behind them, they began to hear music, whistles, voices, and a festive stir, as if a village stood close ahead. Then the little boy beside Giovanni suddenly woke and cried, “Centaurus, let the dew fall!” There before them stood dark firs or pines lit all through with countless small blue lamps, like a thousand fireflies gathered into trees. “Ah, that is right,” Giovanni said. “Tonight is the festival of Centaurus.” Campanella looked at the map and answered at once, “Yes. This is the village of the Centaurs.”
　　
　　Part 10
　　
　　 The little boy beside Giovanni puffed out his chest and said proudly, “If it were a ball game, I would never miss.” He looked so full of life that Giovanni almost forgot, for one warm moment, how strange and sad the journey had become. But the young man soon looked down the carriage and said, “We will arrive at the Southern Cross very soon. Please get ready to get off.” At once the girl beside Campanella rose in a restless way, as if her body obeyed the words even while her heart wanted to stay where it was.
　　 “I want to ride a little farther,” the boy said at once. He pressed himself back into the seat and looked as stubborn as he could. The young man answered with calm firmness, “No, we must get off here.” Then Giovanni, unable to bear it, cried out, “Come with us. Stay with us. We have a ticket that can take us anywhere.” He meant every word with his whole heart, because now he could not bear another parting.
　　 But the girl turned to him sadly and said, “We have to get off here. This is the place where we go to heaven.” Giovanni answered almost angrily, because he wanted to keep them with him. “There is no need to go to heaven,” he said. “My teacher said that here, in this world, we must make a place even better than heaven.” The girl looked troubled and answered, “But Mother is there, and God has called us.”
　　 “Then that god is not the true one,” the boy said hotly. “Your god is the false one,” the girl answered back. Then the young man smiled gently and asked, “And what kind of god is yours?” The boy hesitated and then said that he did not really know, but it was not the kind made by people. It was the one true God, the only real one. The young man folded his hands and said humbly that he prayed they would all meet one day before that one true God.
　　 After that, the carriage fell into a deep waiting silence. Everyone seemed to feel that a great parting stood very near. Then, far down the invisible course of the Milky Way, a cross began to shine up from the river itself. It was covered with blue, orange, and many other colors, and above it there hung a pale blue ring of cloud like a holy halo. At once the whole train stirred with joy and awe. Many passengers stood and began to pray, just as they had before the Northern Cross, but now with even deeper feeling.
　　 “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” bright voices rang through the carriage. Some sounded joyful, some full of tears, and some like sighs too deep for words. The cross came closer and closer until it stood directly before the windows, and the pale ring above it slowly turned. From far away in the cold sky there came the sound of trumpets, clear and pure beyond anything Giovanni had ever heard. The train slowed among many signals and lamps and then stopped fully before the Southern Cross.
　　 “Now it is time to get off,” the young man said. He took the little boy’s hand and led him toward the far door. The girl turned back once and said, “Good-bye.” Giovanni, struggling not to cry aloud, answered almost roughly, “Good-bye,” as if hardness could hold his tears in place. The girl looked back again with wide sorrowful eyes, and then the three of them left the carriage and were gone.
　　 Soon more than half the seats were empty. Cold wind came in through the open door, and the once warm carriage suddenly felt wide and lonely. Looking out, Giovanni saw the travelers kneeling quietly in rows on the white shore of the heavenly river before the cross. Then, across the invisible water, he saw a shining figure in white coming toward them with one hand stretched out. But before he could see more, the glass whistle sounded, the train began moving, and silver mist flowed up from downstream and covered the whole holy shore from sight.
　　 When the mist thinned again, a road lined with small lamps could be seen running along the track. Each tiny lamp went out with a soft pop as the boys came near and lit again after they passed, as if the road itself were greeting them. Behind them the great cross grew smaller and smaller until it looked as though it could hang inside the heart like a small jewel. Giovanni let out a deep breath and said, “Campanella, it is only us again. Let us go on together forever. Like the scorpion, if it is truly for everyone’s happiness, I would not mind if my body burned a hundred times.”
　　 “Yes,” Campanella answered, and beautiful tears stood in his eyes. “I feel the same.” Giovanni then said, “But what is true happiness, really?” Campanella answered softly, “I do not know.” So Giovanni filled his chest with new strength and said that they must hold fast and go on, searching for it together, no matter how far.
　　 Then Campanella pointed out the window and said there was a great dark hole there, a coal sack, a hole in the sky. Giovanni looked and shuddered, because in one place of the Milky Way there truly opened a vast black space, so deep and terrible that no matter how hard he stared into it, he could see nothing. Yet even before that darkness he said, “I am not afraid now. I will go anywhere to search for true happiness. Let us go on together, forever.” Campanella suddenly cried out in joy that a beautiful field lay ahead and that many people were gathered there. Then he said, in a voice full of wonder, “There is my mother.”
　　 Giovanni turned and looked with all his power, but he saw only a pale white blur, like mist over a field. He felt a terrible loneliness and turned back quickly toward Campanella. Across the river there stood two telegraph poles with red crossbars linked together like arms. “Campanella,” he cried, “let us stay together.” But when he looked into the seat beside him, Campanella was no longer there. Only the black velvet of the empty seat shone in the light.
　　 Giovanni sprang up like a shot. He leaned out of the window and struck his chest with all his strength, shouting with a voice no one else could hear. Then he broke into sobs so hard that it seemed the whole world had turned dark at once. In the next instant he opened his eyes. He was lying in the grass on the hill, where he had fallen asleep from weariness. His chest still burned strangely hot, and cold tears were running over his cheeks.
　　 He leaped to his feet like a spring. Below him, the town still lay spread out with its lights, though now they seemed hotter and more restless than before. The Milky Way still crossed the sky as it had before, pale and white, and above the dark southern horizon the red star of Scorpius burned beautifully. The positions of the stars had hardly changed. Giovanni ran down the hill at once, because suddenly his mother, still waiting without supper, filled his heart completely.
　　 He ran through the dark pine wood, around the pale fence of the pasture, and back to the dairy. This time a cart stood there with two barrels on it, showing that someone had only just returned. “Good evening,” Giovanni called. A man in thick white trousers came out at once and asked what he wanted. Giovanni said their milk had not come that day. The man apologized, hurried inside, and returned with a bottle of warm milk.
　　 While handing it over, the man laughed and explained that they had made a foolish mistake. In the afternoon they had carelessly left open the fence of a calf, and the young animal had rushed to its mother and drunk nearly half the milk. Giovanni said it was all right and thanked him. Then he stepped out through the fence gate, holding the still-warm bottle between both hands. The heat of it against his palms felt real and earthly, and for a moment that simple warmth was almost enough to keep him standing still.
　　 But when he came back into the town and reached the great crossroad, he saw at once that something was wrong. Groups of women stood at corners and before shops, whispering while all of them looked toward the large bridge where the boys had gone with their lanterns. Many lights were gathered on the bridge too. Giovanni felt a coldness run through his chest and asked sharply, “What happened?” One woman answered, “A child fell into the river.”
　　 Giovanni ran as if in a dream. The bridge was crowded with people, and even a policeman in white clothes was there. He flew down from the foot of the bridge to the wide riverbank below. Along the edge of the water many lamps were moving busily up and down, and on the far dark bank seven or eight fires were moving as well. In the middle of them the river, now without any wild-vine lanterns at all, flowed gray and quiet with only a little sound.
　　 At the far end of the riverbank, where a sandbar reached out, a dark crowd stood thick against the night. Giovanni ran there as fast as he could, and suddenly Marso, who had been with Campanella earlier, rushed up to him. “Giovanni,” he cried, “Campanella jumped into the river.” Giovanni could barely force out the words, “Why? When?” Marso explained that Zanelli had leaned from the boat to push a floating lantern farther out, the boat had rocked, and he had fallen in. Campanella had jumped in at once and pushed Zanelli back toward the boat, and Zanelli had caught hold of Kato. But after that, Campanella had not appeared again.
　　 Giovanni went on toward the group. There, among students and townspeople, stood Campanella’s father in black clothes, his pointed pale face turned toward the river, his watch held tightly in his right hand. Everyone was staring at the water in silence. No one said a word. Giovanni’s legs trembled violently. The acetylene lamps used for catching fish moved busily here and there, and the dark water flashed in little waves as it flowed.
　　 Downstream the river was full of the reflection of the Milky Way, so that it looked like the sky itself laid flat upon the earth. Giovanni could not stop feeling that Campanella was already somewhere beyond the edge of that silver river of stars. Yet the others still seemed to hope that he would suddenly rise between the waves and call out, “I swam very far,” or that he had reached some hidden sandbank and was waiting there for help. Then, all at once, Campanella’s father said clearly, “It is no use now. It has been forty-five minutes since he fell.”
　　 Giovanni rushed forward and stood before him. He wanted to cry out that he knew where Campanella had gone, that he had walked with him, that he was not truly lost in the way the others thought. But his throat closed, and no words came. The doctor looked at him closely for a moment and then said with great kindness, “You are Giovanni, are you not? Thank you very much for tonight.” Giovanni could only bow. Then the doctor asked whether Giovanni’s father had returned home yet.
　　 Giovanni shook his head faintly. The doctor said he had received a very cheerful letter from Giovanni’s father the day before yesterday, and that he had thought he might arrive that very day. Then he added gently that perhaps the ship had only been delayed, and asked Giovanni to come to his house with the others after school the next day. As he spoke, he again turned his eyes toward the downstream river where the Milky Way lay reflected in full. Giovanni’s heart was too full for speech. So he left the doctor, thinking only that he must take the milk home quickly, tell his mother that Father might soon return, and run back through the town before his strength gave out.