THE POT OF GOLD[F]

[E]From “The Bee-Man of Orn, and Other Fanciful Tales”; copyright, 1887, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. Used by permission of the publishers.

THE POT OF GOLD[F]BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMANThe Flower family lived in a little house in a broad grassy meadow, which sloped a few rods from their front door down to a gentle, silvery river. Right across the river rose a lovely dark green mountain, and when there was a rainbow, as there frequently was, nothing could have looked more enchanting than it did rising from the opposite bank of the stream with the wet, shadowy mountain for a background. All the Flower family would invariably run to their front windows and their door to see it.The Flower family numbered nine: Father and Mother Flower and seven children. Father Flower was an unappreciated poet, Mother Flower was very much like all mothers, and the seven children were very sweet and interesting. Their first names all matched beautifully with their last name, and with their personal appearance. For instance, the oldest girl, who had soft blue eyes and flaxen curls, was called Flax Flower: the little boy, who came next, and had very red cheeks and loved to sleep late in the morning, was called Poppy Flower, and so on. This charming suitablenessof their names was owing to Father Flower. He had a theory that a great deal of the misery and discord in the world comes from things not matching properly as they should; and he thought there ought to be a certain correspondence between all things that were in juxtaposition to each other, just as there ought to be between the last two words of a couplet of poetry. But he found, very often, there was no correspondence at all, just as words in poetry do not always rhyme when they should. However, he did his best to remedy it. He saw that every one of his children’s names was suitable and accorded with their personal characteristics; and in his flower-garden—for he raised flowers for the market—only those of complementary colors were allowed to grow in adjoining beds, and, as often as possible, they rhymed in their names. But that was a more difficult matter to manage, and very few flowers were rhymed, or, if they were, none rhymed correctly. He had a bed of box next to one of phlox, and a trellis of woodbine grew next to one of eglantine, and a thicket of elderblows was next to one of rose; but he was forced to let his violets and honeysuckles and many others go entirely unrhymed—this disturbed him considerably, but he reflected that it was not his fault, but that of the man who made the language and named the different flowers—he should have looked to it that those of complementary colors had names to rhyme with each other, then all would have been harmonious and as it should have been.Father Flower had chosen this way of earning his livelihood when he realized that he was doomed to be an unappreciated poet, because it suited so well with his name; and if the flowers had only rhymed a little better he would have been very well contented. As it was, he never grumbled. He also saw to it that the furniture in his little house and the cooking utensils rhymed as nearly as possible, though that too was oftentimes a difficult matter to bring about, and required a vast deal of thought and hard study. The table always stood under the gable end of the roof, the foot-stool always stood where it was cool, and the big rocking-chair in a glare of sunlight; the lamp, too, he kept down cellar where it was damp. But all these were rather far-fetched, and sometimes quite inconvenient. Occasionally there would be an article that he could not rhyme until he had spent years of thought over it, and when he did it would disturb the comfort of the family greatly. There was the spider. He puzzled over that exceedingly, and when he rhymed it at last, Mother Flower or one of the little girls had always to take the spider beside her, when she sat down, which was of course quite troublesome. The kettle he rhymed first with nettle, and hung a bunch of nettle over it, till all the children got dreadfully stung. Then he tried settle, and hung the kettle over the settle. But that was no place for it; they had to go without their tea, and everybody who sat on the settle bumped his head against the kettle. At last it occurred to Father Flower that if he should make a slight change in the language the kettle could rhyme with the skillet, and sit beside it on the stove, as it ought, leaving harmony out of the question, to do. Accordingly all the children were instructed to call the skillet a skettle, and the kettle stood by its side on the stove ever afterward.The house was a very pretty one, although it was quite rude and very simple. It was built of logs and had a thatched roof, which projected far out over the walls. But it was all overrun with the loveliest flowering vines imaginable, and, inside, nothing could have been more exquisitely neat and homelike; although there was only one room and a little garret over it. All around the house were the flower-beds and the vine-trellises and the blooming shrubs, and they were always in the most beautiful order. Now, although all this was very pretty to see, and seemingly very simple to bring to pass, yet there was a vast deal of labor in it for some one; for flowers do not look so trim and thriving without tending, and houses do not look so spotlessly clean without constant care. All the Flower family worked hard; even the littlest children had their daily tasks set them. The oldest girl, especially, little Flax Flower, was kept busy from morning till night taking care of her younger brothers and sisters, and weeding flowers. But for all that she was a very happy little girl, as indeed were the whole family, as they did not mind working, and loved each other dearly.Father Flower, to be sure, felt a little sad sometimes; for, although his lot in life was a pleasant one, it was not exactly what he would have chosen. Once in a while he had a great longing for something different. He confided a great many of his feelings to Flax Flower; she was more like him than any of the other children, and could understand him even better than his wife, he thought.One day, when there had been a heavy shower and a beautiful rainbow, he and Flax were out in the garden tying up some rose-bushes, which the rain had beaten down, and he said to her how he wished he could find the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow. Flax, if you will believeme, had never heard of it; so he had to tell her all about it, and also say a little poem he had made about it to her.The poem ran something in this way:O what is it shineth so golden-clearAt the rainbow’s foot on the dark green hill?’Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a yearHas shone, and is shining and dazzling still.And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.Flax listened with her soft blue eyes very wide open. “I suppose if we should find that pot of gold it would make us very rich, wouldn’t it, father?” said she.“Yes,” replied her father; “we could then have a grand house, and keep a gardener, and a maid to take care of the children, and we should no longer have to work so hard.” He sighed as he spoke, and tears stood in his gentle blue eyes, which were very much like Flax’s. “However, we shall never find it,” he added.“Why couldn’t we run ever so fast when we saw the rainbow,” inquired Flax, “and get the Pot of Gold?”“Don’t be foolish, child!” said her father; “you could not possibly reach it before the rainbow was quite faded away!”“True,” said Flax, but she fell to thinking as she tied up the dripping roses.The next rainbow they had she eyed very closely, standing out on the front doorstep in the rain, and she saw that one end of it seemed to touch the ground at the foot of a pine-tree on the side of the mountain, which was quite conspicuous amongst its fellows, it was so tall. The other end had nothing especial to mark it.“I will try the end where the tall pine-tree is first,” said Flax to herself, “because that will be the easiest to find—if the Pot of Gold isn’t there I will try to find the other end.”A few days after that it was very hot and sultry, and at noon the thunder heads were piled high all around the horizon.“I don’t doubt but we shall have showers this afternoon,” said Father Flower, when he came in from the garden for his dinner.After the dinner-dishes were washed up, and the baby rocked to sleep, Flax came to her mother with a petition.“Mother,” said she, “won’t you give me a holiday this afternoon?”“Why, where do you want to go, Flax?” said her mother.“I want to go over on the mountain and hunt for wild flowers,” replied Flax.“But I think it is going to rain, child, and you will get wet.”“That won’t hurt me any, mother,” said Flax, laughing.“Well, I don’t know as I care,” said her mother, hesitatingly. “You have been a very good industrious girl, and deserve a little holiday. Only don’t go so far that you cannot soon run home if a shower should come up.”So Flax curled her flaxen hair and tied it up with a blue ribbon, and put on her blue and white checked dress. By the time she was ready to go the clouds over in the northwest were piled up very high and black, and it was quite late in the afternoon. Very likely her mother would not have let her go if she had been at home, but she had taken the baby, who had waked from his nap, and gone to call on her nearest neighbor, half a mile away. As for her father, he was busy in the garden, and all the other children were with him, and they did not notice Flax when she stole out of the front door. She crossed the river on a pretty arched stone bridge nearly opposite the house, and went directly into the woods on the side of the mountain.Everything was very still and dark and solemn in the woods. They knew about the storm that was coming. Now and then Flax heard the leaves talking in queer little rustling voices. She inherited the ability to understand what they said from her father. They were talking to each other now in the words of her father’s song. Very likely he had heard them saying it sometime, and that was how he happened to know it.“O what is it shineth so golden-clearAt the rainbow’s foot on the dark green hill?”Flax heard the maple-leaves inquire. And the pine-leaves answered back:“’Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a yearHas shone, and is shining and dazzling still.”Then the maple-leaves asked:“And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?”And the pine-leaves answered:“For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.”Flax did not exactly understand the sense of the last question and answer between maple and pine-leaves. But they kept on saying it over and over as she ran along. She was going straight to the tall pine-tree. She knew just where itwas, for she had often been there. Now the rain-drops began to splash through the green boughs, and the thunder rolled along the sky. The leaves all tossed about in a strong wind and their soft rustles grew into a roar, and the branches and the whole tree caught it up and called out so loud, as they writhed and twisted about that Flax was almost deafened, the words of the song:“O what is it shineth so golden-clear?”Flax sped along through the wind and the rain and the thunder. She was very much afraid that she should not reach the tall pine which was quite a way distant before the sun shone out, and the rainbow came.The sun was already breaking through the clouds when she came in sight of it, way up above her on a rock. The rain-drops on the trees began to shine like diamonds, and the words of the song rushed out from their midst, louder and sweeter:“O what is it shineth so golden-clear?”Flax climbed for dear life. Red and green and golden rays were already falling thick around her, and at the foot of the pine-tree something was shining wonderfully clear and bright.At last she reached it, and just at that instant the rainbow became a perfect one, and there at the foot of the wonderful arch of glory was the Pot of Gold. Flax could see it brighter than all the brightness of the rainbow. She sank down beside it and put her hand on it, then she closed her eyes and sat still, bathed in red and green and violet light—that, and the golden light from the Pot, made her blind and dizzy. As she sat there with her hand on the Pot of Gold at the foot of the rainbow, she could hear the leaves over her singing louder and louder, till the tones fairly rushed like a wind through her ears. But this time they only sang the last words of the song:“And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.”At last she ventured to open her eyes. The rainbow had faded almost entirely away, only a few tender rose and green shades were arching over her; but the Pot of Gold under her hand was still there, and shining brighter than ever. All the pine needles with which the ground around it was thickly spread, were turned to needles of gold, and some stray couplets of leaves which were springing up through them were all gilded.Flax bent over it trembling and lifted the lid off the pot. She expected, of course, to find it full of gold pieces that would buy the grand house and the gardener and the maid that her father had spoken about. But to her astonishment, when she had lifted the lid off and bent over the Pot to look into it, the first thing she saw was the face of her mother looking out of it at her. It was smaller of course, but just the same loving, kindly face she had left at home. Then, as she looked longer, she saw her father smiling gently up at her, then came Poppy and the baby and all the rest of her dear little brothers and sisters smiling up at her out of the golden gloom inside the Pot. At last she actually saw the garden and her father in it tying up the roses, and the pretty little vine-covered house, and, finally, she could see right into the dear little room where her mother sat with the baby in her lap, and all the others around her.Flax jumped up. “I will run home,” said she, “it is late, and I do want to see them all dreadfully.”So she left the Golden Pot shining all alone under the pine-tree, and ran home as fast as she could.When she reached the house it was almost twilight, but her father was still in the garden. Every rose and lily had to be tied up after the shower, and he was but just finishing. He had the tin milk pan hung on him like a shield, because it rhymed with man. It certainly was a beautiful rhyme, but it was very inconvenient. Poor Mother Flower was at her wits’ end to know what to do without it, and it was very awkward for Father Flower to work with it fastened to him.Flax ran breathlessly into the garden, and threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him. She bumped her nose against the milk pan, but she did not mind that; she was so glad to see him again. Somehow, she never remembered being so glad to see him as she was now since she had seen his face in the Pot of Gold.“Dear father,” cried she, “how glad I am to see you! I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow!”Her father stared at her in amazement.“Yes, I did, truly, father,” said she. “But it was not full of gold, after all. You were in it, and mother and the children and the house and garden and—everything.”“You were mistaken, dear,” said her father, looking at her with his gentle, sorrowful eyes. “You could not have found the true end of the rainbow, nor the true Pot of Gold—that is surely full of the most beautiful gold pieces, with anangel stamped on every one.”“But I did, father,” persisted Flax.“You had better go into your mother, Flax,” said her father; “she will be anxious to see you. I know better than you about the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow.”So Flax went sorrowfully into the house. There was the tea-kettle singing beside the “skettle,” which had some nice smelling soup in it, the table was laid for supper, and there sat her mother with the baby in her lap and the others all around her—just as they had looked in the Pot of Gold.Flax had never been so glad to see them before—and if she didn’t hug and kiss them all!“I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow, mother,” cried she, “and it was not full of gold, at all; but you and father and the children looked out of it at me, and I saw the house and garden and everything in it.”Her mother looked at her lovingly. “Yes, Flax dear,” said she.“But father said I was mistaken,” said Flax, “and did not find it.”“Well dear,” said her mother, “your father is a poet, and very wise; we will say no more about it. You can sit down here and hold the baby now, while I make the tea.”Flax was perfectly ready to do that; and, as she sat there with her darling little baby brother crowing in her lap, and watched her pretty little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, she felt so happy that she did not care any longer whether she found the true Pot of Gold or not.But, after all, do you know, I think her father was mistaken, and that she had.

BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

The Flower family lived in a little house in a broad grassy meadow, which sloped a few rods from their front door down to a gentle, silvery river. Right across the river rose a lovely dark green mountain, and when there was a rainbow, as there frequently was, nothing could have looked more enchanting than it did rising from the opposite bank of the stream with the wet, shadowy mountain for a background. All the Flower family would invariably run to their front windows and their door to see it.

The Flower family numbered nine: Father and Mother Flower and seven children. Father Flower was an unappreciated poet, Mother Flower was very much like all mothers, and the seven children were very sweet and interesting. Their first names all matched beautifully with their last name, and with their personal appearance. For instance, the oldest girl, who had soft blue eyes and flaxen curls, was called Flax Flower: the little boy, who came next, and had very red cheeks and loved to sleep late in the morning, was called Poppy Flower, and so on. This charming suitablenessof their names was owing to Father Flower. He had a theory that a great deal of the misery and discord in the world comes from things not matching properly as they should; and he thought there ought to be a certain correspondence between all things that were in juxtaposition to each other, just as there ought to be between the last two words of a couplet of poetry. But he found, very often, there was no correspondence at all, just as words in poetry do not always rhyme when they should. However, he did his best to remedy it. He saw that every one of his children’s names was suitable and accorded with their personal characteristics; and in his flower-garden—for he raised flowers for the market—only those of complementary colors were allowed to grow in adjoining beds, and, as often as possible, they rhymed in their names. But that was a more difficult matter to manage, and very few flowers were rhymed, or, if they were, none rhymed correctly. He had a bed of box next to one of phlox, and a trellis of woodbine grew next to one of eglantine, and a thicket of elderblows was next to one of rose; but he was forced to let his violets and honeysuckles and many others go entirely unrhymed—this disturbed him considerably, but he reflected that it was not his fault, but that of the man who made the language and named the different flowers—he should have looked to it that those of complementary colors had names to rhyme with each other, then all would have been harmonious and as it should have been.

Father Flower had chosen this way of earning his livelihood when he realized that he was doomed to be an unappreciated poet, because it suited so well with his name; and if the flowers had only rhymed a little better he would have been very well contented. As it was, he never grumbled. He also saw to it that the furniture in his little house and the cooking utensils rhymed as nearly as possible, though that too was oftentimes a difficult matter to bring about, and required a vast deal of thought and hard study. The table always stood under the gable end of the roof, the foot-stool always stood where it was cool, and the big rocking-chair in a glare of sunlight; the lamp, too, he kept down cellar where it was damp. But all these were rather far-fetched, and sometimes quite inconvenient. Occasionally there would be an article that he could not rhyme until he had spent years of thought over it, and when he did it would disturb the comfort of the family greatly. There was the spider. He puzzled over that exceedingly, and when he rhymed it at last, Mother Flower or one of the little girls had always to take the spider beside her, when she sat down, which was of course quite troublesome. The kettle he rhymed first with nettle, and hung a bunch of nettle over it, till all the children got dreadfully stung. Then he tried settle, and hung the kettle over the settle. But that was no place for it; they had to go without their tea, and everybody who sat on the settle bumped his head against the kettle. At last it occurred to Father Flower that if he should make a slight change in the language the kettle could rhyme with the skillet, and sit beside it on the stove, as it ought, leaving harmony out of the question, to do. Accordingly all the children were instructed to call the skillet a skettle, and the kettle stood by its side on the stove ever afterward.

The house was a very pretty one, although it was quite rude and very simple. It was built of logs and had a thatched roof, which projected far out over the walls. But it was all overrun with the loveliest flowering vines imaginable, and, inside, nothing could have been more exquisitely neat and homelike; although there was only one room and a little garret over it. All around the house were the flower-beds and the vine-trellises and the blooming shrubs, and they were always in the most beautiful order. Now, although all this was very pretty to see, and seemingly very simple to bring to pass, yet there was a vast deal of labor in it for some one; for flowers do not look so trim and thriving without tending, and houses do not look so spotlessly clean without constant care. All the Flower family worked hard; even the littlest children had their daily tasks set them. The oldest girl, especially, little Flax Flower, was kept busy from morning till night taking care of her younger brothers and sisters, and weeding flowers. But for all that she was a very happy little girl, as indeed were the whole family, as they did not mind working, and loved each other dearly.

Father Flower, to be sure, felt a little sad sometimes; for, although his lot in life was a pleasant one, it was not exactly what he would have chosen. Once in a while he had a great longing for something different. He confided a great many of his feelings to Flax Flower; she was more like him than any of the other children, and could understand him even better than his wife, he thought.

One day, when there had been a heavy shower and a beautiful rainbow, he and Flax were out in the garden tying up some rose-bushes, which the rain had beaten down, and he said to her how he wished he could find the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow. Flax, if you will believeme, had never heard of it; so he had to tell her all about it, and also say a little poem he had made about it to her.

The poem ran something in this way:

O what is it shineth so golden-clearAt the rainbow’s foot on the dark green hill?’Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a yearHas shone, and is shining and dazzling still.And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.

Flax listened with her soft blue eyes very wide open. “I suppose if we should find that pot of gold it would make us very rich, wouldn’t it, father?” said she.

“Yes,” replied her father; “we could then have a grand house, and keep a gardener, and a maid to take care of the children, and we should no longer have to work so hard.” He sighed as he spoke, and tears stood in his gentle blue eyes, which were very much like Flax’s. “However, we shall never find it,” he added.

“Why couldn’t we run ever so fast when we saw the rainbow,” inquired Flax, “and get the Pot of Gold?”

“Don’t be foolish, child!” said her father; “you could not possibly reach it before the rainbow was quite faded away!”

“True,” said Flax, but she fell to thinking as she tied up the dripping roses.

The next rainbow they had she eyed very closely, standing out on the front doorstep in the rain, and she saw that one end of it seemed to touch the ground at the foot of a pine-tree on the side of the mountain, which was quite conspicuous amongst its fellows, it was so tall. The other end had nothing especial to mark it.

“I will try the end where the tall pine-tree is first,” said Flax to herself, “because that will be the easiest to find—if the Pot of Gold isn’t there I will try to find the other end.”

A few days after that it was very hot and sultry, and at noon the thunder heads were piled high all around the horizon.

“I don’t doubt but we shall have showers this afternoon,” said Father Flower, when he came in from the garden for his dinner.

After the dinner-dishes were washed up, and the baby rocked to sleep, Flax came to her mother with a petition.

“Mother,” said she, “won’t you give me a holiday this afternoon?”

“Why, where do you want to go, Flax?” said her mother.

“I want to go over on the mountain and hunt for wild flowers,” replied Flax.

“But I think it is going to rain, child, and you will get wet.”

“That won’t hurt me any, mother,” said Flax, laughing.

“Well, I don’t know as I care,” said her mother, hesitatingly. “You have been a very good industrious girl, and deserve a little holiday. Only don’t go so far that you cannot soon run home if a shower should come up.”

So Flax curled her flaxen hair and tied it up with a blue ribbon, and put on her blue and white checked dress. By the time she was ready to go the clouds over in the northwest were piled up very high and black, and it was quite late in the afternoon. Very likely her mother would not have let her go if she had been at home, but she had taken the baby, who had waked from his nap, and gone to call on her nearest neighbor, half a mile away. As for her father, he was busy in the garden, and all the other children were with him, and they did not notice Flax when she stole out of the front door. She crossed the river on a pretty arched stone bridge nearly opposite the house, and went directly into the woods on the side of the mountain.

Everything was very still and dark and solemn in the woods. They knew about the storm that was coming. Now and then Flax heard the leaves talking in queer little rustling voices. She inherited the ability to understand what they said from her father. They were talking to each other now in the words of her father’s song. Very likely he had heard them saying it sometime, and that was how he happened to know it.

“O what is it shineth so golden-clearAt the rainbow’s foot on the dark green hill?”

Flax heard the maple-leaves inquire. And the pine-leaves answered back:

“’Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a yearHas shone, and is shining and dazzling still.”

Then the maple-leaves asked:

“And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?”

And the pine-leaves answered:

“For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.”

Flax did not exactly understand the sense of the last question and answer between maple and pine-leaves. But they kept on saying it over and over as she ran along. She was going straight to the tall pine-tree. She knew just where itwas, for she had often been there. Now the rain-drops began to splash through the green boughs, and the thunder rolled along the sky. The leaves all tossed about in a strong wind and their soft rustles grew into a roar, and the branches and the whole tree caught it up and called out so loud, as they writhed and twisted about that Flax was almost deafened, the words of the song:

“O what is it shineth so golden-clear?”

Flax sped along through the wind and the rain and the thunder. She was very much afraid that she should not reach the tall pine which was quite a way distant before the sun shone out, and the rainbow came.

The sun was already breaking through the clouds when she came in sight of it, way up above her on a rock. The rain-drops on the trees began to shine like diamonds, and the words of the song rushed out from their midst, louder and sweeter:

“O what is it shineth so golden-clear?”

Flax climbed for dear life. Red and green and golden rays were already falling thick around her, and at the foot of the pine-tree something was shining wonderfully clear and bright.

At last she reached it, and just at that instant the rainbow became a perfect one, and there at the foot of the wonderful arch of glory was the Pot of Gold. Flax could see it brighter than all the brightness of the rainbow. She sank down beside it and put her hand on it, then she closed her eyes and sat still, bathed in red and green and violet light—that, and the golden light from the Pot, made her blind and dizzy. As she sat there with her hand on the Pot of Gold at the foot of the rainbow, she could hear the leaves over her singing louder and louder, till the tones fairly rushed like a wind through her ears. But this time they only sang the last words of the song:

“And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.”

At last she ventured to open her eyes. The rainbow had faded almost entirely away, only a few tender rose and green shades were arching over her; but the Pot of Gold under her hand was still there, and shining brighter than ever. All the pine needles with which the ground around it was thickly spread, were turned to needles of gold, and some stray couplets of leaves which were springing up through them were all gilded.

Flax bent over it trembling and lifted the lid off the pot. She expected, of course, to find it full of gold pieces that would buy the grand house and the gardener and the maid that her father had spoken about. But to her astonishment, when she had lifted the lid off and bent over the Pot to look into it, the first thing she saw was the face of her mother looking out of it at her. It was smaller of course, but just the same loving, kindly face she had left at home. Then, as she looked longer, she saw her father smiling gently up at her, then came Poppy and the baby and all the rest of her dear little brothers and sisters smiling up at her out of the golden gloom inside the Pot. At last she actually saw the garden and her father in it tying up the roses, and the pretty little vine-covered house, and, finally, she could see right into the dear little room where her mother sat with the baby in her lap, and all the others around her.

Flax jumped up. “I will run home,” said she, “it is late, and I do want to see them all dreadfully.”

So she left the Golden Pot shining all alone under the pine-tree, and ran home as fast as she could.

When she reached the house it was almost twilight, but her father was still in the garden. Every rose and lily had to be tied up after the shower, and he was but just finishing. He had the tin milk pan hung on him like a shield, because it rhymed with man. It certainly was a beautiful rhyme, but it was very inconvenient. Poor Mother Flower was at her wits’ end to know what to do without it, and it was very awkward for Father Flower to work with it fastened to him.

Flax ran breathlessly into the garden, and threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him. She bumped her nose against the milk pan, but she did not mind that; she was so glad to see him again. Somehow, she never remembered being so glad to see him as she was now since she had seen his face in the Pot of Gold.

“Dear father,” cried she, “how glad I am to see you! I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow!”

Her father stared at her in amazement.

“Yes, I did, truly, father,” said she. “But it was not full of gold, after all. You were in it, and mother and the children and the house and garden and—everything.”

“You were mistaken, dear,” said her father, looking at her with his gentle, sorrowful eyes. “You could not have found the true end of the rainbow, nor the true Pot of Gold—that is surely full of the most beautiful gold pieces, with anangel stamped on every one.”

“But I did, father,” persisted Flax.

“You had better go into your mother, Flax,” said her father; “she will be anxious to see you. I know better than you about the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow.”

So Flax went sorrowfully into the house. There was the tea-kettle singing beside the “skettle,” which had some nice smelling soup in it, the table was laid for supper, and there sat her mother with the baby in her lap and the others all around her—just as they had looked in the Pot of Gold.

Flax had never been so glad to see them before—and if she didn’t hug and kiss them all!

“I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow, mother,” cried she, “and it was not full of gold, at all; but you and father and the children looked out of it at me, and I saw the house and garden and everything in it.”

Her mother looked at her lovingly. “Yes, Flax dear,” said she.

“But father said I was mistaken,” said Flax, “and did not find it.”

“Well dear,” said her mother, “your father is a poet, and very wise; we will say no more about it. You can sit down here and hold the baby now, while I make the tea.”

Flax was perfectly ready to do that; and, as she sat there with her darling little baby brother crowing in her lap, and watched her pretty little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, she felt so happy that she did not care any longer whether she found the true Pot of Gold or not.

But, after all, do you know, I think her father was mistaken, and that she had.

[F]From “The Pot of Gold and Other Stories,” by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, published by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company; used by special arrangement.

Verses about fairiesTHE FAIRY THORNAn Ulster BalladBY SAMUEL FERGUSON“Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel,For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep:Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a Highland reelAround the fairy thorn on the steep.”At Anna Grace’s door, ’t was thus the maidens cried—Three merry maidens fair, in kirtles of the green;And Anna laid the sock and the weary wheel aside—The fairest of the four, I ween.They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,Away in milky wavings of the neck and ankle bare;The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,And the crags in the ghostly air;And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,The maids along the hillside have ta’en their fearless way,Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty growBeside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head, gray and dim,In ruddy kisses sweet to see.The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem;And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds, they go—Oh, never carroled bird like them!But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze,That drinks away their voices in echoless repose;And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes,And dreamier the gloaming grows.And sinking, one by one, like lark-notes from the sky,When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,Are hushed the maidens’ voices, as cowering down they lieIn the flutter of their sudden awe.For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,And from the mountain-ashes and the old white thorn between,A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,And they sink down together on the green.They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair;Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,For their shrinking necks again are bare.Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed,Soft o’er their bosoms beating—the only human sound—They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,Like a river in the air, gliding round.Nor scream can raise, nor prayer can any say,But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three;For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,By whom, they dare not look to see.They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws;They feel her sliding arms from their trancèd arms unfold,But they dare not look to see the cause.For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies,Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;And neither fear nor wonder can open their quivering eyes,Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side,With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,The maidens’ trance dissolveth so.They fly, the ghastly three, as swiftly as they may,And told their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain—They pined away and died within the year and day,And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.FAIRY DAYSBY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAYBeside the old hall fire, upon my nurse’s knee,Of happy fairy days, what tales were told to me!I thought the world was once all peopled with princesses,And my heart would beat to hear their loves and their distresses.And many a quiet night, in slumber sweet and deep,The pretty fairy people would visit me in sleep.I saw them in my dreams come flying east and west;With wondrous fairy gifts the newborn babe they blessed.One has brought a jewel, and one a crown of gold,And one has brought a curse, but she is wrinkled and old.The gentle queen turns pale to hear those words of sin,But the king, he only laughs, and bids the dance begin.The babe has grown to be the fairest of the land,And rides the forest green, a hawk upon her hand,An ambling palfrey white, a golden robe and crown;I’ve seen her in my dreams riding up and down:And heard the ogre laugh, as she fell into his snare,At the tender little creature, who wept and tore her hair.But ever when it seemed her need was at the sorest,A prince in shining mail comes prancing through the forest,A waving ostrich-plume, a buckler burnished bright;I’ve seen him in my dreams, good sooth! a gallant knight.His lips are coral red beneath a dark mustache;See how he waves his hand and how his blue eyes flash!“Come forth, thou Paynim knight!” he shouts in accents clear.The giant and the maid, both tremble his voice to hear.Saint Mary guard him well! he draws his falchion keen,The giant and the knight are fighting on the green.I see them in my dreams, his blade gives stroke on stroke,The giant pants and reels, and tumbles like an oak!With what a blushing grace he falls upon his kneeAnd takes the lady’s hand and whispers, “You are free.”Ah! happy childish tales of knight and faërie!I waken from my dreams, but there’s ne’er a knight for me;I waken from my dreams, and wish that I could beA child by the old hall-fire upon my nurse’s knee!a visit to elflandFrom the painting by F. Y. CoryTHE FAIRY QUEENCome, follow, follow me—You, fairy elves that be,Which circle on the green—Come, follow Mab, your queen!Hand in hand let’s dance around,For this place is fairy ground.When mortals are at rest,And snoring in their nest,Unheard and unespied,Through keyholes we do glide;Over tables, stools, and shelves,We trip it with our fairy elves.And if the house be foulWith platter, dish, or bowl,Up stairs we nimbly creep,And find the sluts asleep;There we pinch their arms and thighs—None escapes, nor none espies.But if the house be swept,And from uncleanness kept,We praise the household maid,And duly she is paid;For we use, before we go,To drop a tester in her shoe.Upon a mushroom’s head,Our table cloth we spread;A grain of rye or wheatIs manchet, which we eat;Pearly drops of dew we drink,In acorn cups, filled to the brink.The brains of nightingales,With unctuous fat of snails,Between two cockles stewed,Is meat that’s easily chewed;Tails of worms, and marrow of mice,Do make a dish that’s wondrous nice.The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,Serve us for our minstrelsy;Grace said, we dance a while,And so the time beguile;And if the moon doth hide her head,The glow-worm lights us home to bed.On tops of dewy grassSo nimbly do we pass,The young and tender stalkNe’er bends when we do walk;Yet in the morning may be seenWhere we the night before have been.THE SEA PRINCESSIn a palace of pearl and sea-weed,Set round with shining shells,Under the deeps of the ocean,The little Sea Princess dwells.Sometimes she sees the shadowsOf great whales passing by,Or white-winged vessels sailingBetween the sea and sky.And when through the waves she rises,Beyond the breakers’ roar,She hears the shouts of the childrenAt play on the sandy shore.Or sees the ships’ sides towerAbove like a wet, black wall;Or shouts to the roaring breakers,And answers the sea-gull’s call.But, down in the quiet waters,Better she loves to play,Making a sea-weed garden—Purple and green and gray;Stringing with pearls a necklace,Or learning curious spellsFrom the water-witch, gray and ancient,And hearing the tales she tells.Out in the stable her sea-horseChamps in his crystal stall;And fishes with scales that glistenCome leaping forth at her call.So the little Sea PrincessIs busy and happy all day,Just as the human childrenAre busy and happy at play.And when the darkness gathersOver the lonely deep,On a bed of velvet sea-weedThe Princess is rocked to sleep.LONG AGOWhen the fairies used to live here,Long ago,There was never any dark,Or any snow;But the great big sun kept shiningAll the night,And the roses just kept blooming,Oh, so bright!Then the little children neverTeased their mothers;And little sisters alwaysLoved their brothers.And they played so very gently—But, you know,That was when the fairies lived here,Long ago.THISTLE-TASSEL[G]BY FLORENCE HARRISONThistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the sunlight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,With your silver wings,Will you come and live with meIn my little nursery,Down beside a royal city,Where the river sings?Little Lady, Little Lady,Stepping in the sunlight;Little Lady, Little Lady,Where the rivers run,What have you to give to me,In your pretty nursery,Fairer than a shady valley,Brighter than the sun?Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the twilight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,With your yellow hair,You shall have a couch of down,You shall have a golden crown,And a little gown of silverSewn for you to wear.Little Lady, Little Lady,Stooping in the twilight;Little Lady, Little Lady,All so bonnie brown,Roses are a softer bed,Golden flowers crown my head,Finer than a robe o’ silverIs a fairy gown.Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the starlight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,With a bright pennyYou shall buy the sugar plums,And the honey when it comes,Very sweet, and golden-glowingAs the honey bee.Little Lady, Little Lady,Sighing in the starlight;Little Lady, Little Lady,In the heather curled,Fairy fruit is full and clear,And the honey bee is here:Never need have we of moneyIn a fairy world.Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the moonlight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Queen of fairy ones,I will give you street and spire,Boat, and bridge, and beacon fire,And a sound of merry musicWhere the river runs.Little Lady, Little Lady,Kneeling in the moonlight;Little Lady, Little Lady,In your yellow shoon:Where the boats and bridges be,Naught have you to give to meFairer than a twilit valley,Brighter than the moon.

Verses about fairies

An Ulster Ballad

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON

“Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel,For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep:Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a Highland reelAround the fairy thorn on the steep.”

At Anna Grace’s door, ’t was thus the maidens cried—Three merry maidens fair, in kirtles of the green;And Anna laid the sock and the weary wheel aside—The fairest of the four, I ween.

They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,Away in milky wavings of the neck and ankle bare;The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,And the crags in the ghostly air;

And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,The maids along the hillside have ta’en their fearless way,Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty growBeside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head, gray and dim,In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem;And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds, they go—Oh, never carroled bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze,That drinks away their voices in echoless repose;And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes,And dreamier the gloaming grows.

And sinking, one by one, like lark-notes from the sky,When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,Are hushed the maidens’ voices, as cowering down they lieIn the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,And from the mountain-ashes and the old white thorn between,A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,And they sink down together on the green.

They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair;Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed,Soft o’er their bosoms beating—the only human sound—They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,Like a river in the air, gliding round.

Nor scream can raise, nor prayer can any say,But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three;For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,By whom, they dare not look to see.

They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws;They feel her sliding arms from their trancèd arms unfold,But they dare not look to see the cause.

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies,Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;And neither fear nor wonder can open their quivering eyes,Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side,With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,The maidens’ trance dissolveth so.

They fly, the ghastly three, as swiftly as they may,And told their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain—They pined away and died within the year and day,And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.

BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Beside the old hall fire, upon my nurse’s knee,Of happy fairy days, what tales were told to me!I thought the world was once all peopled with princesses,And my heart would beat to hear their loves and their distresses.And many a quiet night, in slumber sweet and deep,The pretty fairy people would visit me in sleep.

I saw them in my dreams come flying east and west;With wondrous fairy gifts the newborn babe they blessed.One has brought a jewel, and one a crown of gold,And one has brought a curse, but she is wrinkled and old.The gentle queen turns pale to hear those words of sin,But the king, he only laughs, and bids the dance begin.

The babe has grown to be the fairest of the land,And rides the forest green, a hawk upon her hand,An ambling palfrey white, a golden robe and crown;I’ve seen her in my dreams riding up and down:And heard the ogre laugh, as she fell into his snare,At the tender little creature, who wept and tore her hair.

But ever when it seemed her need was at the sorest,A prince in shining mail comes prancing through the forest,A waving ostrich-plume, a buckler burnished bright;I’ve seen him in my dreams, good sooth! a gallant knight.His lips are coral red beneath a dark mustache;See how he waves his hand and how his blue eyes flash!

“Come forth, thou Paynim knight!” he shouts in accents clear.The giant and the maid, both tremble his voice to hear.Saint Mary guard him well! he draws his falchion keen,The giant and the knight are fighting on the green.I see them in my dreams, his blade gives stroke on stroke,The giant pants and reels, and tumbles like an oak!

With what a blushing grace he falls upon his kneeAnd takes the lady’s hand and whispers, “You are free.”Ah! happy childish tales of knight and faërie!I waken from my dreams, but there’s ne’er a knight for me;I waken from my dreams, and wish that I could beA child by the old hall-fire upon my nurse’s knee!

a visit to elflandFrom the painting by F. Y. Cory

Come, follow, follow me—You, fairy elves that be,Which circle on the green—Come, follow Mab, your queen!Hand in hand let’s dance around,For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest,And snoring in their nest,Unheard and unespied,Through keyholes we do glide;Over tables, stools, and shelves,We trip it with our fairy elves.

And if the house be foulWith platter, dish, or bowl,Up stairs we nimbly creep,And find the sluts asleep;There we pinch their arms and thighs—None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept,And from uncleanness kept,We praise the household maid,And duly she is paid;For we use, before we go,To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroom’s head,Our table cloth we spread;A grain of rye or wheatIs manchet, which we eat;Pearly drops of dew we drink,In acorn cups, filled to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,With unctuous fat of snails,Between two cockles stewed,Is meat that’s easily chewed;Tails of worms, and marrow of mice,Do make a dish that’s wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,Serve us for our minstrelsy;Grace said, we dance a while,And so the time beguile;And if the moon doth hide her head,The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewy grassSo nimbly do we pass,The young and tender stalkNe’er bends when we do walk;Yet in the morning may be seenWhere we the night before have been.

In a palace of pearl and sea-weed,Set round with shining shells,Under the deeps of the ocean,The little Sea Princess dwells.

Sometimes she sees the shadowsOf great whales passing by,Or white-winged vessels sailingBetween the sea and sky.

And when through the waves she rises,Beyond the breakers’ roar,She hears the shouts of the childrenAt play on the sandy shore.

Or sees the ships’ sides towerAbove like a wet, black wall;Or shouts to the roaring breakers,And answers the sea-gull’s call.

But, down in the quiet waters,Better she loves to play,Making a sea-weed garden—Purple and green and gray;

Stringing with pearls a necklace,Or learning curious spellsFrom the water-witch, gray and ancient,And hearing the tales she tells.

Out in the stable her sea-horseChamps in his crystal stall;And fishes with scales that glistenCome leaping forth at her call.

So the little Sea PrincessIs busy and happy all day,Just as the human childrenAre busy and happy at play.

And when the darkness gathersOver the lonely deep,On a bed of velvet sea-weedThe Princess is rocked to sleep.

When the fairies used to live here,Long ago,There was never any dark,Or any snow;But the great big sun kept shiningAll the night,And the roses just kept blooming,Oh, so bright!

Then the little children neverTeased their mothers;And little sisters alwaysLoved their brothers.And they played so very gently—But, you know,That was when the fairies lived here,Long ago.

BY FLORENCE HARRISON

Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the sunlight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,With your silver wings,Will you come and live with meIn my little nursery,Down beside a royal city,Where the river sings?

Little Lady, Little Lady,Stepping in the sunlight;Little Lady, Little Lady,Where the rivers run,What have you to give to me,In your pretty nursery,Fairer than a shady valley,Brighter than the sun?

Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the twilight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,With your yellow hair,You shall have a couch of down,You shall have a golden crown,And a little gown of silverSewn for you to wear.

Little Lady, Little Lady,Stooping in the twilight;Little Lady, Little Lady,All so bonnie brown,Roses are a softer bed,Golden flowers crown my head,Finer than a robe o’ silverIs a fairy gown.

Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the starlight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,With a bright pennyYou shall buy the sugar plums,And the honey when it comes,Very sweet, and golden-glowingAs the honey bee.

Little Lady, Little Lady,Sighing in the starlight;Little Lady, Little Lady,In the heather curled,Fairy fruit is full and clear,And the honey bee is here:Never need have we of moneyIn a fairy world.

Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Dancing in the moonlight;Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel,Queen of fairy ones,I will give you street and spire,Boat, and bridge, and beacon fire,And a sound of merry musicWhere the river runs.

Little Lady, Little Lady,Kneeling in the moonlight;Little Lady, Little Lady,In your yellow shoon:Where the boats and bridges be,Naught have you to give to meFairer than a twilit valley,Brighter than the moon.

[G]From “Elfin Songs,” by Florence Harrison; used by permission of the publishers, Blackie & Sons, Glasgow.

SONG OF THE FAIRYBY WILLIAM SHAKESPEAREOver hill, over dale,Through bush, through brier,Over park, over pale,Through flood, through fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon’s sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green;The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see:These be rubies, fairy favors—In those freckles live their savors.I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.From a Thistle Print, copyright by Detroit Publishing Companylittle old man of the woodsfrom a painting by irving r. baconTHE FAIRIESBY WILLIAM ALLINGHAMUp the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together:Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!OH, WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLYOh, where do fairies hide their headsWhen snow lies on the hills,When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,And crystallized their rills?Beneath the moon they cannot tripIn circles o’er the plain,And draughts of dew they cannot sipTill green leaves come again.Perhaps, in small blue diving-bellsThey plunge beneath the waves—Inhabiting the wreathèd shellsThat lie in coral caves.Perhaps in red VesuviusCarousal they maintain;And cheer their little spirits thusTill green leaves come again.Or, maybe, in soft garments rolled,In hollow trees they lie,And sing, when nestled from the cold,To while the season by.There, while they sleep in pleasant trance,’Neath mossy counterpane,In dreams they weave some fairy dance,Till green leaves come again.When they return there will be mirthAnd music in the air,And fairy rings upon the earth,And mischief everywhere.The maids, to keep the elves aloof,Will bar the doors in vain;No key-hole will be fairy-proof,When green leaves come again.Modern fairy talesTHE ELF OF THE WOODLANDSRETOLD FROM RICHARD HENGIST HORNE BY WILLIAM BYRON FORBUSHOne morning when the summer sun was still sleeping an Elf came up from below, tickling an oak-tree’s foot, skipping like a flea, and whispering mischievously to himself.“With little legs straddling,He dances about—Pretends to be waddling—Then leaps with a flout.Now he stops—Now he hops—Now cautiously tripsOn tiptoeAnd sliptoeHe scuttles and skips;Along the grass gliding,Half dancing, half sliding.”There was a pretty white cottage on the edge of the wood, and, with everybody quiet within, it also seemed asleep. Toward this cottage skipped the Elf.He was a little fellow, scarce five inches tall. His body was as brown as the bark of a tree, all mixed with green streaks and tarnished gold. You could hardly see him as he went stooping along against the green leaves and the brown branches.When he got to the sleeping cottage he climbed up the lattice, and poked his sharp little nose into every crevice. He pulled open a loose shutter, tapped once or twice on the windows, and when he found a broken pane—in he went!In this cottage lived a girl named Toody. She was not very big, as you can believe when I tell you that all the shrubs in the garden were taller than she, and all the flowers nodded over her head. In this same house lived Toody’s cousins, Kitty, and Crocus, and Twig, and Tiny—only Tiny was a little dog, not a little boy. And here, too, lived Grandmother Grey.“In spectacles, tucker and flower’d-chintz gown,Who always half smiled when trying to frown.”Grandmother Grey took care of them all. At five o’clock that morning she woke up. “What noise do I hear below?” she cried. “It is daylight, but nobody is up I know.”So Grandmother Grey threw off her skullcap and bandage, and nightcap with all its ribbons, bows and strings, and called out loudly: “Come, children, jump up quickly! There’s a rat in the dairy! Come down with me.”Then Toody, and Crocus, and Kitty, and Twig, in their nightgowns and nightcaps, ran scrambling and laughing down stairs, with Tiny barking and tumbling about between their legs. They crept through the parlor, where all the shutters were closed but one. Like cautious Indians they went silently on, Dame Grey and the children in single file, each holding on to the one before by the tail of her nightgown.Into the dairy they went, and stared about. Then they huddled together in fear, for behind a milk-jug, under the spout, they saw a quaint little figure.“It was golden, and greenish, and earthy brown,With a perking nose and a pointed chin;It had very bright eyes and a funny frown,With a russet-apple’s network skin.”They all started to run in terror, but brave Tiny sprang up and began to chase the Elf round a milkpan.Oh, what a race was there! They ran so fast that the two small bodies were as one. They looked like the dark band on the humming-top when you spin it. And just as Tiny was about to catch him, the Elf leaped into a pan, swam across three pails of milk, climbed the wall and hid on a shelf.“We’ve lost him; we’ve lost him!” cried all the children. But, just in time, GrandmotherGrey seized her jelly-bag, swung it across the shelf, and into it was swept our little elfin friend.“Now, children,” said she, “Go up and dress.”The children did not know what the old dame was going to do next. She led the way into the parlor. “Tiny,” said she, “I depend on you to keep watch for us.” So Tiny stood like a soldier, with both ears cocked and his nose down bent, and watched every motion that was going on in the bag, which stood up now like a tent on the floor.’Twas but a minute before the children were down again, all dressed. The tea-kettle was singing, and the hot rolls were on the table, and everybody was ringing the bell all at once for more eggs. But Tiny stood guard over the jelly-bag tent.“I think the Elf is hungry and thirsty,” said Toody. So she slipped a saucer of milk under the edge of the tent, and then, laughing, she rolled in an egg. They all listened for ten minutes, and then they plainly heard the crackling of the shell.“Away with the tea things!” said Dame Grey to Martha, the maid. “And bring me my white wicker bird-cage.”So the bird-cage was brought, and Grandmother Grey took up the jelly-bag carefully, clapped its mouth to the open cage-door, shook it, and—pop! in went the Elf, and the cage door was made fast! Did he moan? Did he complain? Not he. With one spring and ten kicks he climbed to the pole and seated himself there, with his hands on the pole.Toody ran close to the cage, and so did Crocus and Twig; and Kitty, a little farther off, stood staring and smiling. But the Elf was not a bit frightened. He sat swinging his little legs, with his tongue in his left cheek and his left eye looking down with a half-winking, impertinent air.“Now,” cried Dame Grey, “tell us who you are, little Sir, and what you are. Do you know that you have spoilt all my cream, and broken my best china-cup? Speak up now! What have you to say for yourself?”The Elf was very angry, but it would never do to show it. So he tried to look as gentle as a good child reading a book. He rubbed some of the yellow of the egg off his chin, and stuck it on his leg like a buttercup. He shrugged his shoulders up in a bunch, and then, with a sneeze as if he had caught cold in the forest, he began:“Nine white witches sat in a circle close,With their backs against a greenwood tree,As around the dead-nettle’s summer stemIts woolly white blossoms you see.Then from hedges and ditches, these old lady-witches,Took bird-weed and rag-weed and spear-grass for me,And they wove me a bower, ’gainst the snow-storm or shower,In a dry old hollow beech tree.Twangle tee!Ri-rigdum, dingle shade-laugh, tingle dee!”“Nonsense!” said Grandmother Grey. “You can’t fool me with your nettles, and nonsense, and hedges, and ditches. What do I care about all that? You know as well as I do that you came here tosteal cakeanddrink cream. Besides, you have broken my best china-cup!”The Elf gave a sigh, and looked up in the air; then took a glance at Martha’s broom, and as he looked down he thought he saw Toody winking at him. So he just smiled and said: “I declare, by the tom-tit’s folly, and the mole’s pin-hole eye, and the woodpecker’s thorny tongue, that I have told you the truth.”Noticing that Toody was still winking at him he kept on, and told the following story:“One day when I was loafing about in the wood I heard a strange noise in the bushes. I peeped over the edge, and there was a robin bathing in the brook. It ruffled its feathers with a spattering sound, made itself into a fussy ball, and threw up a shower of water; but what I most noticed was its eye—its eye!—”“Its eye—its eye?” broke in all the children. “What about its eye?”The Elf glanced again at Toody, and he saw that this time she gave him a quiet nod, as much as to say, “I’ll find you a chance.” So the Elf gave a downward squint at the closed cage-door, just for a hint. Then he scratched his cheek, jumped down on the floor of the cage, and began to act out a “robin,” just as if he were on the stage.“Its eye—its eye? Well, just as soon as it caught a glimpse of me it bobbed—took wing—and was out of sight. Then back it came again, as if angry. It looked like an alderman lecturing the poor, but meaning really to—unlock the cage!I mean—to try to fool me. See! How high it flies. Clear up to the tip-top of the tree. Look at its large bright eye! There! There! See how it bobs—makes a quick bow, just as I am doing—points down its tail and up its nose—and off it goes!”And out and off went the Elf!“Run, Tiny, run! Oh, Kitty! Twig! The little rascal is gone! Run, Toody, run! Ah, I caught you; you are the one who loosened the cage-door.Run, Tiny! Oh, Kitty, Twig, and Crocus, that robin redbreast story was only meant to fool us!” Thus cried Grandmother Grey, till she was breathless.“Off they all ran trooping,And hallooing and whooping,Beneath the low boughs stooping,Right through the wood,For Grandmama Grey,Like an old duck, led the way,When a string of ducks trudge to a flood.Then came Kitty, side by sideWith Toody, who oft cried;‘Oh, Kitty dear, was ever such rare fun, fun, fun!’And Crocus close to Twig,Both scampered in a jig,For they knew the Elf his freedom-race had won, won, won!As for him, the roguish Elf,He took good care of himself;His mites of legs they twinkled as he fled, fled, fled.He was scarcely seen, indeed,He so glistened with his speed,And his hair streamed out like silver grass behind his head.”So Dame Grey and the children chased the Elf till they were hot and tired, and till the sun went down; and by and by they gave up, and all went home to let Martha wash their soiled hands and faces.It was a warm and pleasant night, and before very long all the children were fast asleep.“Within a very little nook,Toody always slept alone,Its strip of window stole a lookOver the lawn and hayrick-cone.Within the open lattice creptSome jasmine from the cottage wall,And to the breathing of her sleep,Softly swayed, with rise and fall.But something else comes creeping in,As softly, from the starry night—The Elf!—’tis he!—first peeping in,Now like a moth doth he alight.He trips up to the little bed,And near it hangs a full-blown rose;Then in the middle of the flowerPlaces a light that gleams and glows.It is a glowworm from the lea,And lighting up the rose’s heart,A fairy grot it seems to be,Where dream-thoughts live and ne’er depart.And now the Elf once more is goneInto the woodlands wild,Leaving his blessing thus to shineUpon the sleeping child.”PRINCESS FINOLA AND THE DWARF[H]BY EDMUND LEAMYA long, long time ago there lived in a little hut in the midst of a bare, brown, lonely moor an old woman and a young girl. The old woman was withered, sour-tempered, and dumb. The young girl was as sweet and as fresh as an opening rosebud, and her voice was as musical as the whisper of a stream in the woods in the hot days of summer. The little hut, made of branches woven closely together, was shaped like a bee-hive. In the center of the hut a fire burned night and day from year’s end to year’s end, though it was never touched or tended by human hand. In the cold days and nights of winter it gave out light and heat that made the hut cozy and warm, but in the summer nights and days it gave out light only. With their heads to the wall of the hut and their feet toward the fire were two sleeping-couches—one of plain woodwork, in which slept the old woman; the other was Finola’s. It was of bog-oak, polished as a looking-glass, and on it were carved flowers and birds of all kinds that gleamed and shone in the light of the fire. This couch was fit for a Princess, and a Princess Finola was, though she did not know it herself.Outside the hut the bare, brown, lonely moor stretched for miles on every side, but toward the east it was bounded by a range of mountains that looked to Finola blue in the daytime, but which put on a hundred changing colors as the sun went down. Nowhere was a house to be seen, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor sign of any living thing. From morning till night, nor humof bee, nor song of bird, nor voice of man, nor any sound fell on Finola’s ear. When the storm was in the air the great waves thundered on the shore beyond the mountains, and the wind shouted in the glens; but when it sped across the moor it lost its voice, and passed as silently as the dead. At first the silence frightened Finola, but she got used to it after a time, and often broke it by talking to herself and singing.The only other person beside the old woman Finola ever saw was a dumb Dwarf who, mounted on a broken-down horse, came once a month to the hut, bringing with him a sack of corn for the old woman and Finola. Although he couldn’t speak to her, Finola was always glad to see the Dwarf and his old horse, and she used to give them cake made with her own white hands. As for the Dwarf he would have died for the little Princess, he was so much in love with her, and often and often his heart was heavy and sad as he thought of her pining away in the lonely moor.It chanced that he came one day, and she did not, as usual, come out to greet him. He made signs to the old woman, but she took up a stick and struck him, and beat his horse and drove him away; but as he was leaving he caught a glimpse of Finola at the door of the hut, and saw that she was crying. This sight made him so very miserable that he could think of nothing else but her sad face, that he had always seen so bright; and he allowed the old horse to go on without minding where he was going. Suddenly he heard a voice saying: “It is time for you to come.”The Dwarf looked, and right before him, at the foot of a green hill, was a little man not half as big as himself, dressed in a green jacket with brass buttons, and a red cap and tassel.“It is time for you to come,” he said the second time; “but you are welcome, anyhow. Get off your horse and come in with me, that I may touch your lips with the wand of speech, that we may have a talk together.”The Dwarf got off his horse and followed the little man through a hole in the side of a green hill. The hole was so small that he had to go on his hands and knees to pass through it, and when he was able to stand he was only the same height as the little Fairyman. After walking three or four steps they were in a splendid room, as bright as day. Diamonds sparkled in the roof as stars sparkle in the sky when the night is without a cloud. The roof rested on golden pillars, and between the pillars were silver lamps, but their light was dimmed by that of the diamonds. In the middle of the room was a table, on which were two golden plates and two silver knives and forks, and a brass bell as big as a hazelnut, and beside the table were two little chairs.“Take a chair,” said the Fairy, “and I will ring for the wand of speech.”The Dwarf sat down, and the Fairyman rang the little brass bell, and in came a little weeny Dwarf no bigger than your hand.“Bring me the wand of speech,” said the Fairy, and the weeny Dwarf bowed three times and walked out backward, and in a minute he returned, carrying a little black wand with a red berry at the top of it, and, giving it to the Fairy, he bowed three times and walked out backward as he had done before.The little man waved the rod three times over the Dwarf, and struck him once on the right shoulder and once on the left shoulder, and then touched his lips with the red berry, and said: “Speak!”The Dwarf spoke, and he was so rejoiced at hearing the sound of his own voice that he danced about the room.“Who are you at all, at all?” said he to the Fairy.“Who is yourself?” said the Fairy. “But come, before we have any talk let us have something to eat, for I am sure you are hungry.”Then they sat down to table, and the Fairy rang the little brass bell twice, and the weeny Dwarf brought in two boiled snails in their shells, and when they had eaten the snails he brought in a dormouse, and when they had eaten the dormouse he brought in two wrens, and when they had eaten the wrens he brought in two nuts full of wine, and they became very merry, and the Fairyman sang “Cooleen Dhas,” and the Dwarf sang “The Little Blackbird of the Glen.”“Did you ever hear the ‘Foggy Dew’?” said the Fairy.“No,” said the Dwarf.“Well, then, I’ll give it to you; but we must have some more wine.”And the wine was brought, and he sang the “Foggy Dew,” and the Dwarf said it was the sweetest song he had ever heard, and that the Fairyman’s voice would coax the birds off the bushes!“You asked me who I am?” said the Fairy.“I did,” said the Dwarf.“And I asked you who is yourself?”“You did,” said the Dwarf.“And who are you, then?”“Well, to tell the truth, I don’t know,” said the Dwarf, and he blushed like a rose.“Well, tell me what you know about yourself.”“I remember nothing at all,” said the Dwarf, “before the day I found myself going along with a crowd of all sorts of people to the great fair of the Liffey. We had to pass by the King’s palace on our way, and as we were passing the King sent for a band of jugglers to come and show their tricks before him. I followed the jugglers to look on, and when the play was over the King called me to him, and asked me who I was and where I came from. I was dumb then, and couldn’t answer; but even if I could speak I could not tell him what he wanted to know, for I remembered nothing of myself before that day. Then the King asked the jugglers, but they knew nothing about me, and no one knew anything, and then the King said he would take me into his service; and the only work I have to do is to go once a month with a bag of corn to the hut in the lonely moor.”“And there you fell in love with the little Princess,” said the Fairy, winking at the Dwarf.The poor Dwarf blushed twice as much as he had done before.“You need not blush,” said the Fairy; “it is a good man’s case. And now tell me, truly, do you love the Princess, and what would you give to free her from the spell of enchantment that is over her?”“I would give my life,” said the Dwarf.“Well, then, listen to me,” said the Fairy. “The Princess Finola was banished to the lonely moor by the King, your master. He killed her father, who was the rightful King, and would have killed Finola, only he was told by an old sorceress that if he killed her he would die himself on the same day, and she advised him to banish her to the lonely moor, and she said she would fling a spell of enchantment over it, and that until the spell was broken Finola could not leave the moor. And the sorceress also promised that she would send an old woman to watch over the Princess by night and by day, so that no harm should come to her; but she told the King that he himself should select a messenger to take food to the hut, and that he should look out for someone who had never seen or heard of the Princess, and whom he could trust never to tell anyone anything about her; and that is the reason he selected you.”“Since you know so much,” said the Dwarf, “can you tell me who I am, and where I came from?”“You will know that time enough,” said the Fairy. “I have given you back your speech. It will depend solely on yourself whether you will get back your memory of who and what you were before the day you entered the King’s service. But are you really willing to try and break the spell of enchantment and free the Princess?”“I am,” said the Dwarf.“Whatever it will cost you?”“Yes, if it cost me my life,” said the Dwarf; “but tell me, how can the spell be broken?”“Oh, it is easy enough to break the spell if you have the weapons,” said the Fairy.“And what are they, and where are they?” said the Dwarf.“The spear of the shining haft and the dark blue blade and the silver shield,” said the Fairy. “They are on the farther bank of the Mystic Lake in the Island of the Western Seas. They are there for the man who is bold enough to seek them. If you are the man who will bring them back to the lonely moor you will only have to strike the shield three times with the haft, and three times with the blade of the spear, and the silence of the moor will be broken forever, the spell of enchantment will be removed, and the Princess will be free.”“I will set out at once,” said the Dwarf, jumping from his chair.“And whatever it cost you,” said the Fairy, “will you pay the price?”“I will,” said the Dwarf.“Well, then, mount your horse, give him his head, and he will take you to the shore opposite the Island of the Mystic Lake. You must cross to the island on his back, and make your way through the water-steeds that swim around the island night and day to guard it; but woe betide you if you attempt to cross without paying the price, for if you do the angry water-steeds will rend you and your horse to pieces. And when you come to the Mystic Lake you must wait until the waters are as red as wine, and then swim your horse across it, and on the farther side you will find the spear and shield; but woe betide you if you attempt to cross the lake before you pay the price, for if you do, the black Cormorants of the Western Seas will pick the flesh from your bones.”“What is the price?” said the Dwarf.“You will know that time enough,” said the Fairy; “but now go, and good luck go with you.”The Dwarf thanked the Fairy, and said good-by. He then threw the reins on his horse’s neck, and started up the hill, that seemed to grow bigger and bigger as he ascended, and the Dwarf soon found that what he took for a hill was a great mountain. After traveling all the day, toiling up by steep crags and heathery passes, he reached the top as the sun was setting in theocean, and he saw far below him out in the waters the island of the Mystic Lake.He began his descent to the shore, but long before he reached it the sun had set, and darkness, unpierced by a single star, dropped upon the sea. The old horse, worn out by his long and painful journey, sank beneath him, and the Dwarf was so tired that he rolled off his back and fell asleep by his side.He awoke at the breaking of the morning, and saw that he was almost at the water’s edge. He looked out to sea, and saw the island, but nowhere could he see the water-steeds, and he began to fear he must have taken a wrong course in the night, and that the island before him was not the one he was in search of. But even while he was so thinking he heard fierce and angry snortings, and, coming swiftly from the island to the shore, he saw the swimming and prancing steeds. Sometimes their heads and manes only were visible, and sometimes, rearing, they rose half out of the water, and, striking it with their hoofs, churned it into foam, and tossed the white spray to the skies. As they approached nearer and nearer their snortings became more terrible, and their nostrils shot forth clouds of vapor. The Dwarf trembled at the sight and sound, and his old horse, quivering in every limb, moaned piteously, as if in pain. On came the steeds, until they almost touched the shore, then rearing, they seemed about to spring on to it.The frightened Dwarf turned his head to fly, and as he did so he heard the twang of a golden harp, and right before him whom should he see but the little man of the hills, holding a harp in one hand and striking the strings with the other.“Are you ready to pay the price?” said he, nodding gayly to the Dwarf.As he asked the question, the listening water-steeds snorted more furiously than ever.“Are you ready to pay the price?” said the little man a second time.A shower of spray, tossed on shore by the angry steeds, drenched the Dwarf to the skin, and sent a cold shiver to his bones, and he was so terrified that he could not answer.“For the third and last time, are you ready to pay the price?” asked the Fairy, as he flung the harp behind him and turned to depart.When the Dwarf saw him going he thought of the little Princess in the lonely moor, and his courage came back, and he answered bravely:“Yes, I am ready.”The water-steeds, hearing his answer, and snorting with rage, struck the shore with their pounding hoofs.“Back to your waves!” cried the little harper; and as he ran his fingers across his lyre, the frightened steeds drew back into the waters.“What is the price?” asked the Dwarf.“Your right eye,” said the Fairy; and before the Dwarf could say a word, the Fairy scooped out the eye with his finger, and put it into his pocket.The Dwarf suffered most terrible agony; but he resolved to bear it for the sake of the little Princess. Then the Fairy sat down on a rock at the edge of the sea, and, after striking a few notes, he began to play the “Strains of Slumber.”The sound crept along the waters, and the steeds, so ferocious a moment before, became perfectly still. They had no longer any motion of their own, and they floated on the top of the tide like foam before a breeze.“Now,” said the Fairy, as he led the Dwarf’s horse to the edge of the tide.The Dwarf urged the horse into the water, and once out of his depth, the old horse struck out boldly for the island. The sleeping water-steeds drifted helplessly against him, and in a short time he reached the island safely, and he neighed joyously as his hoofs touched solid ground.The Dwarf rode on and on, until he came to a bridle-path, and following this, it led him up through winding lanes, bordered with golden furze that filled the air with fragrance, and brought him to the summit of the green hills that girdled and looked down on the Mystic Lake. Here the horse stopped of his own accord, and the Dwarf’s heart beat quickly as his eye rested on the lake, that, clipped round by the ring of hills, seemed in the breezeless and sunlit air—“As still as death.And as bright as life can be.”After gazing at it for a long time, he dismounted, and lay at his ease in the pleasant grass. Hour after hour passed, but no change came over the face of the waters; and when the night fell, sleep closed the eyelids of the Dwarf.The song of the lark awoke him in the early morning, and, starting up, he looked at the lake, but its waters were as bright as they had been the day before.Toward midday he beheld what he thought was a black cloud sailing across the sky from east to west. It seemed to grow larger as it came nearer and nearer, and when it was high above the lake he saw it was a huge bird, the shadow of whose outstretched wings darkened the watersof the lake; and the Dwarf knew it was one of the Cormorants of the Western Seas. As it descended slowly, he saw that it held in one of its claws a branch of a tree larger than a full-grown oak, and laden with clusters of ripe red berries. It alighted at some distance from the Dwarf, and, after resting for a time, it began to eat the berries and to throw the stones into the lake, and wherever a stone fell a bright red stain appeared in the water. As he looked more closely at the bird the Dwarf saw that it had all the signs of old age, and he could not help wondering how it was able to carry such a heavy tree.Later in the day, two other birds, as large as the first, but younger, came up from the west and settled down beside him. They also ate the berries, and throwing the stones into the lake it was soon as red as wine.When they had eaten all the berries, the young birds began to pick the decayed feathers off the old bird and to smooth his plumage. As soon as they had completed their task, he rose slowly from the hill and sailed out over the lake, and dropping down on the waters dived beneath them. In a moment he came to the surface, and shot up into the air with a joyous cry, and flew off to the west in all the vigor of renewed youth, followed by the other birds.When they had gone so far that they were like specks in the sky, the Dwarf mounted his horse and descended toward the lake.He was almost at the margin, and in another minute would have plunged in, when he heard a fierce screaming in the air, and before he had time to look up, the three birds were hovering over the lake.The Dwarf drew back frightened.The birds wheeled over his head, and then, swooping down, they flew close to the water, covering it with their wings, and uttering harsh cries.Then, rising to a great height, they folded their wings and dropped headlong, like three rocks, on the lake, crashing its surface, and scattering a wine-red shower upon the hills.Then the Dwarf remembered what the Fairy told him, that if he attempted to swim the lake, without paying the price, the three Cormorants of the Western Seas would pick the flesh off his bones. He knew not what to do, and was about to turn away, when he heard once more the twang of the golden harp, and the little fairy of the hills stood before him.“Faint heart never won fair lady,” said the little harper. “Are you ready to pay the price? The spear and shield are on the opposite bank, and the Princess Finola is crying this moment in the lonely moor.”At the mention of Finola’s name the Dwarf’s heart grew strong.“Yes,” he said; “I am ready—win or die. What is the price?”“Your left eye,” said the Fairy. And as soon as said he scooped out the eye, and put it in his pocket.The poor blind Dwarf almost fainted with pain.“It’s your last trial,” said the Fairy, “and now do what I tell you. Twist your horse’s mane round your right hand, and I will lead him to the water. Plunge in, and fear not. I gave you back your speech. When you reach the opposite bank you will get back your memory, and you will know who and what you are.”Then the Fairy led the horse to the margin of the lake.“In with you now, and good luck go with you,” said the Fairy.The Dwarf urged the horse. He plunged into the lake, and went down and down until his feet struck the bottom. Then he began to ascend, and as he came near the surface of the water the Dwarf thought he saw a glimmering light, and when he rose above the water he saw the bright sun shining and the green hills before him, and he shouted with joy at finding his sight restored.But he saw more. Instead of the old horse he had ridden into the lake he was bestride a noble steed, and as the steed swam to the bank the Dwarf felt a change coming over himself, and an unknown vigor in his limbs.When the steed touched the shore he galloped up the hillside, and on the top of the hill was a silver shield, bright as the sun, resting against a spear standing upright in the ground.The Dwarf jumped off, and, running toward the shield, he saw himself as in a looking-glass.He was no longer a dwarf, but a gallant knight. At that moment his memory came back to him, and he knew he was Conal, one of the Knights of the Red Branch, and he remembered now that the spell of dumbness and deformity had been cast upon him by the Witch of the Palace of the Quicken Trees.Slinging his shield upon his left arm, he plucked the spear from the ground and leaped on to his horse. With a light heart he swam back over the lake, and nowhere could he see the black Cormorants of the Western Seas, but three white swans floating abreast followed him to the bank. When he reached the bank he galloped down tothe sea, and crossed to the shore.Then he flung the reins upon his horse’s neck, and swifter than the wind the gallant horse swept on and on, and it was not long until he was bounding over the enchanted moor. Wherever his hoofs struck the ground, grass and flowers sprang up, and great trees with leafy branches rose on every side.At last the knight reached the little hut. Three times he struck the shield with the haft and three times with the blade of his spear. At the last blow the hut disappeared, and standing before him was the little Princess.The knight took her in his arms and kissed her; then he lifted her on to the horse, and, leaping up before her, he turned toward the north, to the palace of the Red Branch Knights; and as they rode on beneath the leafy trees, from every tree the birds sang out, for the spell of deathly silence over the lonely moor was broken forever.

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Over hill, over dale,Through bush, through brier,Over park, over pale,Through flood, through fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon’s sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green;The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see:These be rubies, fairy favors—In those freckles live their savors.I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

From a Thistle Print, copyright by Detroit Publishing Companylittle old man of the woodsfrom a painting by irving r. bacon

BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together:Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.

High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY

Oh, where do fairies hide their headsWhen snow lies on the hills,When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,And crystallized their rills?

Beneath the moon they cannot tripIn circles o’er the plain,And draughts of dew they cannot sipTill green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small blue diving-bellsThey plunge beneath the waves—Inhabiting the wreathèd shellsThat lie in coral caves.Perhaps in red VesuviusCarousal they maintain;And cheer their little spirits thusTill green leaves come again.

Or, maybe, in soft garments rolled,In hollow trees they lie,And sing, when nestled from the cold,To while the season by.There, while they sleep in pleasant trance,’Neath mossy counterpane,In dreams they weave some fairy dance,Till green leaves come again.

When they return there will be mirthAnd music in the air,And fairy rings upon the earth,And mischief everywhere.The maids, to keep the elves aloof,Will bar the doors in vain;No key-hole will be fairy-proof,When green leaves come again.

Modern fairy tales

RETOLD FROM RICHARD HENGIST HORNE BY WILLIAM BYRON FORBUSH

One morning when the summer sun was still sleeping an Elf came up from below, tickling an oak-tree’s foot, skipping like a flea, and whispering mischievously to himself.

“With little legs straddling,He dances about—Pretends to be waddling—Then leaps with a flout.Now he stops—Now he hops—Now cautiously tripsOn tiptoeAnd sliptoeHe scuttles and skips;Along the grass gliding,Half dancing, half sliding.”

There was a pretty white cottage on the edge of the wood, and, with everybody quiet within, it also seemed asleep. Toward this cottage skipped the Elf.

He was a little fellow, scarce five inches tall. His body was as brown as the bark of a tree, all mixed with green streaks and tarnished gold. You could hardly see him as he went stooping along against the green leaves and the brown branches.

When he got to the sleeping cottage he climbed up the lattice, and poked his sharp little nose into every crevice. He pulled open a loose shutter, tapped once or twice on the windows, and when he found a broken pane—in he went!

In this cottage lived a girl named Toody. She was not very big, as you can believe when I tell you that all the shrubs in the garden were taller than she, and all the flowers nodded over her head. In this same house lived Toody’s cousins, Kitty, and Crocus, and Twig, and Tiny—only Tiny was a little dog, not a little boy. And here, too, lived Grandmother Grey.

“In spectacles, tucker and flower’d-chintz gown,Who always half smiled when trying to frown.”

Grandmother Grey took care of them all. At five o’clock that morning she woke up. “What noise do I hear below?” she cried. “It is daylight, but nobody is up I know.”

So Grandmother Grey threw off her skullcap and bandage, and nightcap with all its ribbons, bows and strings, and called out loudly: “Come, children, jump up quickly! There’s a rat in the dairy! Come down with me.”

Then Toody, and Crocus, and Kitty, and Twig, in their nightgowns and nightcaps, ran scrambling and laughing down stairs, with Tiny barking and tumbling about between their legs. They crept through the parlor, where all the shutters were closed but one. Like cautious Indians they went silently on, Dame Grey and the children in single file, each holding on to the one before by the tail of her nightgown.

Into the dairy they went, and stared about. Then they huddled together in fear, for behind a milk-jug, under the spout, they saw a quaint little figure.

“It was golden, and greenish, and earthy brown,With a perking nose and a pointed chin;It had very bright eyes and a funny frown,With a russet-apple’s network skin.”

They all started to run in terror, but brave Tiny sprang up and began to chase the Elf round a milkpan.

Oh, what a race was there! They ran so fast that the two small bodies were as one. They looked like the dark band on the humming-top when you spin it. And just as Tiny was about to catch him, the Elf leaped into a pan, swam across three pails of milk, climbed the wall and hid on a shelf.

“We’ve lost him; we’ve lost him!” cried all the children. But, just in time, GrandmotherGrey seized her jelly-bag, swung it across the shelf, and into it was swept our little elfin friend.

“Now, children,” said she, “Go up and dress.”

The children did not know what the old dame was going to do next. She led the way into the parlor. “Tiny,” said she, “I depend on you to keep watch for us.” So Tiny stood like a soldier, with both ears cocked and his nose down bent, and watched every motion that was going on in the bag, which stood up now like a tent on the floor.

’Twas but a minute before the children were down again, all dressed. The tea-kettle was singing, and the hot rolls were on the table, and everybody was ringing the bell all at once for more eggs. But Tiny stood guard over the jelly-bag tent.

“I think the Elf is hungry and thirsty,” said Toody. So she slipped a saucer of milk under the edge of the tent, and then, laughing, she rolled in an egg. They all listened for ten minutes, and then they plainly heard the crackling of the shell.

“Away with the tea things!” said Dame Grey to Martha, the maid. “And bring me my white wicker bird-cage.”

So the bird-cage was brought, and Grandmother Grey took up the jelly-bag carefully, clapped its mouth to the open cage-door, shook it, and—pop! in went the Elf, and the cage door was made fast! Did he moan? Did he complain? Not he. With one spring and ten kicks he climbed to the pole and seated himself there, with his hands on the pole.

Toody ran close to the cage, and so did Crocus and Twig; and Kitty, a little farther off, stood staring and smiling. But the Elf was not a bit frightened. He sat swinging his little legs, with his tongue in his left cheek and his left eye looking down with a half-winking, impertinent air.

“Now,” cried Dame Grey, “tell us who you are, little Sir, and what you are. Do you know that you have spoilt all my cream, and broken my best china-cup? Speak up now! What have you to say for yourself?”

The Elf was very angry, but it would never do to show it. So he tried to look as gentle as a good child reading a book. He rubbed some of the yellow of the egg off his chin, and stuck it on his leg like a buttercup. He shrugged his shoulders up in a bunch, and then, with a sneeze as if he had caught cold in the forest, he began:

“Nine white witches sat in a circle close,With their backs against a greenwood tree,As around the dead-nettle’s summer stemIts woolly white blossoms you see.Then from hedges and ditches, these old lady-witches,Took bird-weed and rag-weed and spear-grass for me,And they wove me a bower, ’gainst the snow-storm or shower,In a dry old hollow beech tree.Twangle tee!Ri-rigdum, dingle shade-laugh, tingle dee!”

“Nonsense!” said Grandmother Grey. “You can’t fool me with your nettles, and nonsense, and hedges, and ditches. What do I care about all that? You know as well as I do that you came here tosteal cakeanddrink cream. Besides, you have broken my best china-cup!”

The Elf gave a sigh, and looked up in the air; then took a glance at Martha’s broom, and as he looked down he thought he saw Toody winking at him. So he just smiled and said: “I declare, by the tom-tit’s folly, and the mole’s pin-hole eye, and the woodpecker’s thorny tongue, that I have told you the truth.”

Noticing that Toody was still winking at him he kept on, and told the following story:

“One day when I was loafing about in the wood I heard a strange noise in the bushes. I peeped over the edge, and there was a robin bathing in the brook. It ruffled its feathers with a spattering sound, made itself into a fussy ball, and threw up a shower of water; but what I most noticed was its eye—its eye!—”

“Its eye—its eye?” broke in all the children. “What about its eye?”

The Elf glanced again at Toody, and he saw that this time she gave him a quiet nod, as much as to say, “I’ll find you a chance.” So the Elf gave a downward squint at the closed cage-door, just for a hint. Then he scratched his cheek, jumped down on the floor of the cage, and began to act out a “robin,” just as if he were on the stage.

“Its eye—its eye? Well, just as soon as it caught a glimpse of me it bobbed—took wing—and was out of sight. Then back it came again, as if angry. It looked like an alderman lecturing the poor, but meaning really to—unlock the cage!I mean—to try to fool me. See! How high it flies. Clear up to the tip-top of the tree. Look at its large bright eye! There! There! See how it bobs—makes a quick bow, just as I am doing—points down its tail and up its nose—and off it goes!”

And out and off went the Elf!

“Run, Tiny, run! Oh, Kitty! Twig! The little rascal is gone! Run, Toody, run! Ah, I caught you; you are the one who loosened the cage-door.Run, Tiny! Oh, Kitty, Twig, and Crocus, that robin redbreast story was only meant to fool us!” Thus cried Grandmother Grey, till she was breathless.

“Off they all ran trooping,And hallooing and whooping,Beneath the low boughs stooping,Right through the wood,For Grandmama Grey,Like an old duck, led the way,When a string of ducks trudge to a flood.Then came Kitty, side by sideWith Toody, who oft cried;‘Oh, Kitty dear, was ever such rare fun, fun, fun!’And Crocus close to Twig,Both scampered in a jig,For they knew the Elf his freedom-race had won, won, won!As for him, the roguish Elf,He took good care of himself;His mites of legs they twinkled as he fled, fled, fled.He was scarcely seen, indeed,He so glistened with his speed,And his hair streamed out like silver grass behind his head.”

So Dame Grey and the children chased the Elf till they were hot and tired, and till the sun went down; and by and by they gave up, and all went home to let Martha wash their soiled hands and faces.

It was a warm and pleasant night, and before very long all the children were fast asleep.

“Within a very little nook,Toody always slept alone,Its strip of window stole a lookOver the lawn and hayrick-cone.

Within the open lattice creptSome jasmine from the cottage wall,And to the breathing of her sleep,Softly swayed, with rise and fall.

But something else comes creeping in,As softly, from the starry night—The Elf!—’tis he!—first peeping in,Now like a moth doth he alight.

He trips up to the little bed,And near it hangs a full-blown rose;Then in the middle of the flowerPlaces a light that gleams and glows.

It is a glowworm from the lea,And lighting up the rose’s heart,A fairy grot it seems to be,Where dream-thoughts live and ne’er depart.

And now the Elf once more is goneInto the woodlands wild,Leaving his blessing thus to shineUpon the sleeping child.”

BY EDMUND LEAMY

A long, long time ago there lived in a little hut in the midst of a bare, brown, lonely moor an old woman and a young girl. The old woman was withered, sour-tempered, and dumb. The young girl was as sweet and as fresh as an opening rosebud, and her voice was as musical as the whisper of a stream in the woods in the hot days of summer. The little hut, made of branches woven closely together, was shaped like a bee-hive. In the center of the hut a fire burned night and day from year’s end to year’s end, though it was never touched or tended by human hand. In the cold days and nights of winter it gave out light and heat that made the hut cozy and warm, but in the summer nights and days it gave out light only. With their heads to the wall of the hut and their feet toward the fire were two sleeping-couches—one of plain woodwork, in which slept the old woman; the other was Finola’s. It was of bog-oak, polished as a looking-glass, and on it were carved flowers and birds of all kinds that gleamed and shone in the light of the fire. This couch was fit for a Princess, and a Princess Finola was, though she did not know it herself.

Outside the hut the bare, brown, lonely moor stretched for miles on every side, but toward the east it was bounded by a range of mountains that looked to Finola blue in the daytime, but which put on a hundred changing colors as the sun went down. Nowhere was a house to be seen, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor sign of any living thing. From morning till night, nor humof bee, nor song of bird, nor voice of man, nor any sound fell on Finola’s ear. When the storm was in the air the great waves thundered on the shore beyond the mountains, and the wind shouted in the glens; but when it sped across the moor it lost its voice, and passed as silently as the dead. At first the silence frightened Finola, but she got used to it after a time, and often broke it by talking to herself and singing.

The only other person beside the old woman Finola ever saw was a dumb Dwarf who, mounted on a broken-down horse, came once a month to the hut, bringing with him a sack of corn for the old woman and Finola. Although he couldn’t speak to her, Finola was always glad to see the Dwarf and his old horse, and she used to give them cake made with her own white hands. As for the Dwarf he would have died for the little Princess, he was so much in love with her, and often and often his heart was heavy and sad as he thought of her pining away in the lonely moor.

It chanced that he came one day, and she did not, as usual, come out to greet him. He made signs to the old woman, but she took up a stick and struck him, and beat his horse and drove him away; but as he was leaving he caught a glimpse of Finola at the door of the hut, and saw that she was crying. This sight made him so very miserable that he could think of nothing else but her sad face, that he had always seen so bright; and he allowed the old horse to go on without minding where he was going. Suddenly he heard a voice saying: “It is time for you to come.”

The Dwarf looked, and right before him, at the foot of a green hill, was a little man not half as big as himself, dressed in a green jacket with brass buttons, and a red cap and tassel.

“It is time for you to come,” he said the second time; “but you are welcome, anyhow. Get off your horse and come in with me, that I may touch your lips with the wand of speech, that we may have a talk together.”

The Dwarf got off his horse and followed the little man through a hole in the side of a green hill. The hole was so small that he had to go on his hands and knees to pass through it, and when he was able to stand he was only the same height as the little Fairyman. After walking three or four steps they were in a splendid room, as bright as day. Diamonds sparkled in the roof as stars sparkle in the sky when the night is without a cloud. The roof rested on golden pillars, and between the pillars were silver lamps, but their light was dimmed by that of the diamonds. In the middle of the room was a table, on which were two golden plates and two silver knives and forks, and a brass bell as big as a hazelnut, and beside the table were two little chairs.

“Take a chair,” said the Fairy, “and I will ring for the wand of speech.”

The Dwarf sat down, and the Fairyman rang the little brass bell, and in came a little weeny Dwarf no bigger than your hand.

“Bring me the wand of speech,” said the Fairy, and the weeny Dwarf bowed three times and walked out backward, and in a minute he returned, carrying a little black wand with a red berry at the top of it, and, giving it to the Fairy, he bowed three times and walked out backward as he had done before.

The little man waved the rod three times over the Dwarf, and struck him once on the right shoulder and once on the left shoulder, and then touched his lips with the red berry, and said: “Speak!”

The Dwarf spoke, and he was so rejoiced at hearing the sound of his own voice that he danced about the room.

“Who are you at all, at all?” said he to the Fairy.

“Who is yourself?” said the Fairy. “But come, before we have any talk let us have something to eat, for I am sure you are hungry.”

Then they sat down to table, and the Fairy rang the little brass bell twice, and the weeny Dwarf brought in two boiled snails in their shells, and when they had eaten the snails he brought in a dormouse, and when they had eaten the dormouse he brought in two wrens, and when they had eaten the wrens he brought in two nuts full of wine, and they became very merry, and the Fairyman sang “Cooleen Dhas,” and the Dwarf sang “The Little Blackbird of the Glen.”

“Did you ever hear the ‘Foggy Dew’?” said the Fairy.

“No,” said the Dwarf.

“Well, then, I’ll give it to you; but we must have some more wine.”

And the wine was brought, and he sang the “Foggy Dew,” and the Dwarf said it was the sweetest song he had ever heard, and that the Fairyman’s voice would coax the birds off the bushes!

“You asked me who I am?” said the Fairy.

“I did,” said the Dwarf.

“And I asked you who is yourself?”

“You did,” said the Dwarf.

“And who are you, then?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I don’t know,” said the Dwarf, and he blushed like a rose.

“Well, tell me what you know about yourself.”

“I remember nothing at all,” said the Dwarf, “before the day I found myself going along with a crowd of all sorts of people to the great fair of the Liffey. We had to pass by the King’s palace on our way, and as we were passing the King sent for a band of jugglers to come and show their tricks before him. I followed the jugglers to look on, and when the play was over the King called me to him, and asked me who I was and where I came from. I was dumb then, and couldn’t answer; but even if I could speak I could not tell him what he wanted to know, for I remembered nothing of myself before that day. Then the King asked the jugglers, but they knew nothing about me, and no one knew anything, and then the King said he would take me into his service; and the only work I have to do is to go once a month with a bag of corn to the hut in the lonely moor.”

“And there you fell in love with the little Princess,” said the Fairy, winking at the Dwarf.

The poor Dwarf blushed twice as much as he had done before.

“You need not blush,” said the Fairy; “it is a good man’s case. And now tell me, truly, do you love the Princess, and what would you give to free her from the spell of enchantment that is over her?”

“I would give my life,” said the Dwarf.

“Well, then, listen to me,” said the Fairy. “The Princess Finola was banished to the lonely moor by the King, your master. He killed her father, who was the rightful King, and would have killed Finola, only he was told by an old sorceress that if he killed her he would die himself on the same day, and she advised him to banish her to the lonely moor, and she said she would fling a spell of enchantment over it, and that until the spell was broken Finola could not leave the moor. And the sorceress also promised that she would send an old woman to watch over the Princess by night and by day, so that no harm should come to her; but she told the King that he himself should select a messenger to take food to the hut, and that he should look out for someone who had never seen or heard of the Princess, and whom he could trust never to tell anyone anything about her; and that is the reason he selected you.”

“Since you know so much,” said the Dwarf, “can you tell me who I am, and where I came from?”

“You will know that time enough,” said the Fairy. “I have given you back your speech. It will depend solely on yourself whether you will get back your memory of who and what you were before the day you entered the King’s service. But are you really willing to try and break the spell of enchantment and free the Princess?”

“I am,” said the Dwarf.

“Whatever it will cost you?”

“Yes, if it cost me my life,” said the Dwarf; “but tell me, how can the spell be broken?”

“Oh, it is easy enough to break the spell if you have the weapons,” said the Fairy.

“And what are they, and where are they?” said the Dwarf.

“The spear of the shining haft and the dark blue blade and the silver shield,” said the Fairy. “They are on the farther bank of the Mystic Lake in the Island of the Western Seas. They are there for the man who is bold enough to seek them. If you are the man who will bring them back to the lonely moor you will only have to strike the shield three times with the haft, and three times with the blade of the spear, and the silence of the moor will be broken forever, the spell of enchantment will be removed, and the Princess will be free.”

“I will set out at once,” said the Dwarf, jumping from his chair.

“And whatever it cost you,” said the Fairy, “will you pay the price?”

“I will,” said the Dwarf.

“Well, then, mount your horse, give him his head, and he will take you to the shore opposite the Island of the Mystic Lake. You must cross to the island on his back, and make your way through the water-steeds that swim around the island night and day to guard it; but woe betide you if you attempt to cross without paying the price, for if you do the angry water-steeds will rend you and your horse to pieces. And when you come to the Mystic Lake you must wait until the waters are as red as wine, and then swim your horse across it, and on the farther side you will find the spear and shield; but woe betide you if you attempt to cross the lake before you pay the price, for if you do, the black Cormorants of the Western Seas will pick the flesh from your bones.”

“What is the price?” said the Dwarf.

“You will know that time enough,” said the Fairy; “but now go, and good luck go with you.”

The Dwarf thanked the Fairy, and said good-by. He then threw the reins on his horse’s neck, and started up the hill, that seemed to grow bigger and bigger as he ascended, and the Dwarf soon found that what he took for a hill was a great mountain. After traveling all the day, toiling up by steep crags and heathery passes, he reached the top as the sun was setting in theocean, and he saw far below him out in the waters the island of the Mystic Lake.

He began his descent to the shore, but long before he reached it the sun had set, and darkness, unpierced by a single star, dropped upon the sea. The old horse, worn out by his long and painful journey, sank beneath him, and the Dwarf was so tired that he rolled off his back and fell asleep by his side.

He awoke at the breaking of the morning, and saw that he was almost at the water’s edge. He looked out to sea, and saw the island, but nowhere could he see the water-steeds, and he began to fear he must have taken a wrong course in the night, and that the island before him was not the one he was in search of. But even while he was so thinking he heard fierce and angry snortings, and, coming swiftly from the island to the shore, he saw the swimming and prancing steeds. Sometimes their heads and manes only were visible, and sometimes, rearing, they rose half out of the water, and, striking it with their hoofs, churned it into foam, and tossed the white spray to the skies. As they approached nearer and nearer their snortings became more terrible, and their nostrils shot forth clouds of vapor. The Dwarf trembled at the sight and sound, and his old horse, quivering in every limb, moaned piteously, as if in pain. On came the steeds, until they almost touched the shore, then rearing, they seemed about to spring on to it.

The frightened Dwarf turned his head to fly, and as he did so he heard the twang of a golden harp, and right before him whom should he see but the little man of the hills, holding a harp in one hand and striking the strings with the other.

“Are you ready to pay the price?” said he, nodding gayly to the Dwarf.

As he asked the question, the listening water-steeds snorted more furiously than ever.

“Are you ready to pay the price?” said the little man a second time.

A shower of spray, tossed on shore by the angry steeds, drenched the Dwarf to the skin, and sent a cold shiver to his bones, and he was so terrified that he could not answer.

“For the third and last time, are you ready to pay the price?” asked the Fairy, as he flung the harp behind him and turned to depart.

When the Dwarf saw him going he thought of the little Princess in the lonely moor, and his courage came back, and he answered bravely:

“Yes, I am ready.”

The water-steeds, hearing his answer, and snorting with rage, struck the shore with their pounding hoofs.

“Back to your waves!” cried the little harper; and as he ran his fingers across his lyre, the frightened steeds drew back into the waters.

“What is the price?” asked the Dwarf.

“Your right eye,” said the Fairy; and before the Dwarf could say a word, the Fairy scooped out the eye with his finger, and put it into his pocket.

The Dwarf suffered most terrible agony; but he resolved to bear it for the sake of the little Princess. Then the Fairy sat down on a rock at the edge of the sea, and, after striking a few notes, he began to play the “Strains of Slumber.”

The sound crept along the waters, and the steeds, so ferocious a moment before, became perfectly still. They had no longer any motion of their own, and they floated on the top of the tide like foam before a breeze.

“Now,” said the Fairy, as he led the Dwarf’s horse to the edge of the tide.

The Dwarf urged the horse into the water, and once out of his depth, the old horse struck out boldly for the island. The sleeping water-steeds drifted helplessly against him, and in a short time he reached the island safely, and he neighed joyously as his hoofs touched solid ground.

The Dwarf rode on and on, until he came to a bridle-path, and following this, it led him up through winding lanes, bordered with golden furze that filled the air with fragrance, and brought him to the summit of the green hills that girdled and looked down on the Mystic Lake. Here the horse stopped of his own accord, and the Dwarf’s heart beat quickly as his eye rested on the lake, that, clipped round by the ring of hills, seemed in the breezeless and sunlit air—

“As still as death.And as bright as life can be.”

After gazing at it for a long time, he dismounted, and lay at his ease in the pleasant grass. Hour after hour passed, but no change came over the face of the waters; and when the night fell, sleep closed the eyelids of the Dwarf.

The song of the lark awoke him in the early morning, and, starting up, he looked at the lake, but its waters were as bright as they had been the day before.

Toward midday he beheld what he thought was a black cloud sailing across the sky from east to west. It seemed to grow larger as it came nearer and nearer, and when it was high above the lake he saw it was a huge bird, the shadow of whose outstretched wings darkened the watersof the lake; and the Dwarf knew it was one of the Cormorants of the Western Seas. As it descended slowly, he saw that it held in one of its claws a branch of a tree larger than a full-grown oak, and laden with clusters of ripe red berries. It alighted at some distance from the Dwarf, and, after resting for a time, it began to eat the berries and to throw the stones into the lake, and wherever a stone fell a bright red stain appeared in the water. As he looked more closely at the bird the Dwarf saw that it had all the signs of old age, and he could not help wondering how it was able to carry such a heavy tree.

Later in the day, two other birds, as large as the first, but younger, came up from the west and settled down beside him. They also ate the berries, and throwing the stones into the lake it was soon as red as wine.

When they had eaten all the berries, the young birds began to pick the decayed feathers off the old bird and to smooth his plumage. As soon as they had completed their task, he rose slowly from the hill and sailed out over the lake, and dropping down on the waters dived beneath them. In a moment he came to the surface, and shot up into the air with a joyous cry, and flew off to the west in all the vigor of renewed youth, followed by the other birds.

When they had gone so far that they were like specks in the sky, the Dwarf mounted his horse and descended toward the lake.

He was almost at the margin, and in another minute would have plunged in, when he heard a fierce screaming in the air, and before he had time to look up, the three birds were hovering over the lake.

The Dwarf drew back frightened.

The birds wheeled over his head, and then, swooping down, they flew close to the water, covering it with their wings, and uttering harsh cries.

Then, rising to a great height, they folded their wings and dropped headlong, like three rocks, on the lake, crashing its surface, and scattering a wine-red shower upon the hills.

Then the Dwarf remembered what the Fairy told him, that if he attempted to swim the lake, without paying the price, the three Cormorants of the Western Seas would pick the flesh off his bones. He knew not what to do, and was about to turn away, when he heard once more the twang of the golden harp, and the little fairy of the hills stood before him.

“Faint heart never won fair lady,” said the little harper. “Are you ready to pay the price? The spear and shield are on the opposite bank, and the Princess Finola is crying this moment in the lonely moor.”

At the mention of Finola’s name the Dwarf’s heart grew strong.

“Yes,” he said; “I am ready—win or die. What is the price?”

“Your left eye,” said the Fairy. And as soon as said he scooped out the eye, and put it in his pocket.

The poor blind Dwarf almost fainted with pain.

“It’s your last trial,” said the Fairy, “and now do what I tell you. Twist your horse’s mane round your right hand, and I will lead him to the water. Plunge in, and fear not. I gave you back your speech. When you reach the opposite bank you will get back your memory, and you will know who and what you are.”

Then the Fairy led the horse to the margin of the lake.

“In with you now, and good luck go with you,” said the Fairy.

The Dwarf urged the horse. He plunged into the lake, and went down and down until his feet struck the bottom. Then he began to ascend, and as he came near the surface of the water the Dwarf thought he saw a glimmering light, and when he rose above the water he saw the bright sun shining and the green hills before him, and he shouted with joy at finding his sight restored.

But he saw more. Instead of the old horse he had ridden into the lake he was bestride a noble steed, and as the steed swam to the bank the Dwarf felt a change coming over himself, and an unknown vigor in his limbs.

When the steed touched the shore he galloped up the hillside, and on the top of the hill was a silver shield, bright as the sun, resting against a spear standing upright in the ground.

The Dwarf jumped off, and, running toward the shield, he saw himself as in a looking-glass.

He was no longer a dwarf, but a gallant knight. At that moment his memory came back to him, and he knew he was Conal, one of the Knights of the Red Branch, and he remembered now that the spell of dumbness and deformity had been cast upon him by the Witch of the Palace of the Quicken Trees.

Slinging his shield upon his left arm, he plucked the spear from the ground and leaped on to his horse. With a light heart he swam back over the lake, and nowhere could he see the black Cormorants of the Western Seas, but three white swans floating abreast followed him to the bank. When he reached the bank he galloped down tothe sea, and crossed to the shore.

Then he flung the reins upon his horse’s neck, and swifter than the wind the gallant horse swept on and on, and it was not long until he was bounding over the enchanted moor. Wherever his hoofs struck the ground, grass and flowers sprang up, and great trees with leafy branches rose on every side.

At last the knight reached the little hut. Three times he struck the shield with the haft and three times with the blade of his spear. At the last blow the hut disappeared, and standing before him was the little Princess.

The knight took her in his arms and kissed her; then he lifted her on to the horse, and, leaping up before her, he turned toward the north, to the palace of the Red Branch Knights; and as they rode on beneath the leafy trees, from every tree the birds sang out, for the spell of deathly silence over the lonely moor was broken forever.

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