Though there was not a breath of wind they all stirred about her. The rustling noise of the leaves was almost like words. The nightingale stopped singing as if to listen to it. Lucy felt that at any moment she would begin to understand what the trees were trying to say. But the moment did not come. The rustling died away. The nightingale resumed its song. Even in the moonlight the wood looked more ordinary again. Yet Lucy had the feeling （as you sometimes have when you are trying to remember a name or a date and almost get it， but it vanishes before you really do） that she had just missed something： as if she had spoken to the trees a split second too soon or a split second too late， or used all the right words except one， or put in one word that was just wrong.
Quite suddenly she began to feel tired. She went back to the bivouac， snuggled down between Susan and Peter， and was asleep in a few minutes.
It was a cold and cheerless waking for them all next morning， with a grey twilight in the wood （for the sun had not yet risen） and everything damp and dirty.
“Apples， heigh.ho，” said Trumpkin with a rueful grin. “I must say you ancient kings and queens don’t overfeed your courtiers！”
