If he went high enough, he thought, he could see the window of his bedroom. He was tired and he felt he ought to be getting to bed. He hoped he could see his bedroom window from the top of the mountain. But as he looked down over the other side he slipped And there wasn’t any-other side of the mountain. He was falling, in thin air. But, luckily, he kept his wits and his purple crayon. He made a balloon and he grabbed on to it. And he made a basket under the balloon big enough to stand in. He had a fine view from the balloon but he couldn’t see his window. He couldn’t even see a house. So he made a house, with windows. And he landed the balloon on the grass in the front yard. None of the windows was his windows. He tried to think where his window ought to be. He decided to ask a policeman. The policeman pointed the way Harold was going anyway.