The Miser Elf.There was a little miser elf who had a precious storeOf silver motes from moonbeams and priceless grains of ore,And shiny dust of marigold, and glittering jeweled eyesOf burnished stars and spangles from the wings of butterflies,And bales of wondrous gossamer and green-gold beetles’ wings,And many other marvelous and rare and costly things.But, alas! with all his golden dust and jewels rich and rare,This little elf was never free from misery and care.The wealth that might have conjured up all good things at his beckWas just a golden millstone that hung around his neck.He never had one moment’s peace, his treasure out of sight,Though he buried it for safety in a different place each night;Each night the thought of robbers made him close his eyes in vain,And just as soon as it was light he’d dig it up again.One night (it was a woodland place in which he chanced to bide)—As usual he sought a place in which his gold to hide.He had not long been seeking before he chanced to seeA thing he’d never seen before—a curious kind of tree:The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sortOf dome or hat—let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short.“The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear,Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.”No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep,Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep.For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free;And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree.“Ah, here it is!” he cried; and sure enough, before his sightIt stood. “But what is this?” Another like it to the right!“Which can it be?” He rubbed his chin. “What underneath the sunHas happened? Why, I could have sworn last night there was but one.Which can it be that marks the spot in which my treasure lies?”And looking round, another tree of the same shape and size,Another and another still met his astonished eyes.Then the dreadful truth burst on him, and he stood transfixed with frightIn a forest of umbrella-trees all grown up in a night.When walking in the autumn woods, dear reader, and you passA toadstool lying on its side among the leaves and grass,Think of the little miser elf, for ’tis a sign that heStill digs for his lost treasure underneath the umbrella-tree.
There was a little miser elf who had a precious storeOf silver motes from moonbeams and priceless grains of ore,And shiny dust of marigold, and glittering jeweled eyesOf burnished stars and spangles from the wings of butterflies,And bales of wondrous gossamer and green-gold beetles’ wings,And many other marvelous and rare and costly things.But, alas! with all his golden dust and jewels rich and rare,This little elf was never free from misery and care.
There was a little miser elf who had a precious storeOf silver motes from moonbeams and priceless grains of ore,And shiny dust of marigold, and glittering jeweled eyesOf burnished stars and spangles from the wings of butterflies,And bales of wondrous gossamer and green-gold beetles’ wings,And many other marvelous and rare and costly things.But, alas! with all his golden dust and jewels rich and rare,This little elf was never free from misery and care.
The wealth that might have conjured up all good things at his beckWas just a golden millstone that hung around his neck.He never had one moment’s peace, his treasure out of sight,Though he buried it for safety in a different place each night;Each night the thought of robbers made him close his eyes in vain,And just as soon as it was light he’d dig it up again.
The wealth that might have conjured up all good things at his beckWas just a golden millstone that hung around his neck.He never had one moment’s peace, his treasure out of sight,Though he buried it for safety in a different place each night;Each night the thought of robbers made him close his eyes in vain,And just as soon as it was light he’d dig it up again.
One night (it was a woodland place in which he chanced to bide)—As usual he sought a place in which his gold to hide.He had not long been seeking before he chanced to seeA thing he’d never seen before—a curious kind of tree:
One night (it was a woodland place in which he chanced to bide)—As usual he sought a place in which his gold to hide.He had not long been seeking before he chanced to seeA thing he’d never seen before—a curious kind of tree:
The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sortOf dome or hat—let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short.“The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear,Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.”
The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sortOf dome or hat—let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short.“The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear,Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.”
The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sortOf dome or hat—let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short.“The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear,Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.”
No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep,Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep.For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free;And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree.
No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep,Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep.For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free;And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree.
No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep,Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep.For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free;And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree.
“Ah, here it is!” he cried; and sure enough, before his sightIt stood. “But what is this?” Another like it to the right!“Which can it be?” He rubbed his chin. “What underneath the sunHas happened? Why, I could have sworn last night there was but one.Which can it be that marks the spot in which my treasure lies?”And looking round, another tree of the same shape and size,Another and another still met his astonished eyes.Then the dreadful truth burst on him, and he stood transfixed with frightIn a forest of umbrella-trees all grown up in a night.
“Ah, here it is!” he cried; and sure enough, before his sightIt stood. “But what is this?” Another like it to the right!“Which can it be?” He rubbed his chin. “What underneath the sunHas happened? Why, I could have sworn last night there was but one.Which can it be that marks the spot in which my treasure lies?”And looking round, another tree of the same shape and size,Another and another still met his astonished eyes.
Then the dreadful truth burst on him, and he stood transfixed with frightIn a forest of umbrella-trees all grown up in a night.
When walking in the autumn woods, dear reader, and you passA toadstool lying on its side among the leaves and grass,Think of the little miser elf, for ’tis a sign that heStill digs for his lost treasure underneath the umbrella-tree.
When walking in the autumn woods, dear reader, and you passA toadstool lying on its side among the leaves and grass,Think of the little miser elf, for ’tis a sign that heStill digs for his lost treasure underneath the umbrella-tree.