The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Fairy GreenThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Fairy GreenAuthor: Rose FylemanRelease date: June 10, 2019 [eBook #59726]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAIRY GREEN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Fairy GreenAuthor: Rose FylemanRelease date: June 10, 2019 [eBook #59726]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: The Fairy Green
Author: Rose Fyleman
Author: Rose Fyleman
Release date: June 10, 2019 [eBook #59726]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAIRY GREEN ***
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Fairies and ChimneysThe Fairy FluteThe Rainbow Cat, and Other Stories
BY
ROSE FYLEMAN
AUTHOR OF "FAIRIES AND CHIMNEYS"
SEVENTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.36 ESSEX STREET W.C.LONDON
First Published ... October 23rd 1919Second Edition ... December 1919Third Edition ... November 1920Fourth Edition ... May 1921Fifth (School) Edition ... October 1921Sixth Edition ... December 1921Seventh Edition ... October 1922
TO ALL TEACHERS OF LITTLE CHILDRENIN GENERAL AND ONE IN PARTICULAR
CONTENTS
FAIRIES
VisionPleaseThe Daphne BushAlms in AutumnFairy MusicThe HayfieldThis IslandSmith Square, WestminsterThe Enchanted PrincessThe Goblin to the Fairy QueenThe Fairy Queen to the GoblinFairies in AutumnTrees and FairiesFairies in the MalvernsThe Fairies send MessengersDunsley Glen
BIRD-LORE
PeacocksThe CuckooThe RooksThe RobinThe CockThe Grouse
A LITTLE GIRL
BeforeSinging-TimeThere are no Wolves in England nowMrs. BrownThe SpringCousin GwenThe ButcherThe Pillar-BoxThe DentistJoysMy PolicemanThe Porridge PlateThe Fairy GreenThe Visit
ENVOI
To the Fairies
THE FAIRY GREEN
I've seen her, I've seen herBeneath an apple-tree;The minute that I saw her thereWith stars and dewdrops in her hairI knew it must be she.She's sitting on a dragon-flyAll shining green and gold;The dragon-fly goes circling roundA little way above the ground—She isn't taking hold.
I've seen her, I've seen her,I never, never knewThat anything could be so sweet;She has the tiniest hands and feet,Her wings are very blue.She holds her little head likethisBecause she is a queen;(I can't describe it all in words)She's throwing kisses to the birdsAnd laughing in between.
I've seen her, I've seen her—I simply ran and ran;Put down your sewing quickly, please,Let's hurry to the orchard treesAs softly as we can.I had to go and leave her there,I felt I couldn't stay,I wanted you to see her too—But oh, whatever shall we doIf she has flown away?
Please be careful where you tread,The fairies are about;Last night, when I had gone to bed,I heard them creeping out.And wouldn't it be a dreadful thingTo do a fairy harm?To crush a little delicate wingOr bruise a tiny arm?They're all about the place, I know,So do be careful where you go.
Please be careful what you say,They're often very near,And though they turn their heads awayThey cannot help but hear.And think how terribly you would mindIf, even for a joke,You said a thing that seemed unkindTo the dear little fairy folk.I'm sure they're simply everywhere,Sopromiseme that you'll take care.
All about the daphne bush the happy fairies went,And spread abroad their silken hair to catch its magic scent;They chanted little silver tunes, they danced the whole day long;The rosy bush was ringed around with chains of coloured song.
They danced, they sang, they flung about their tiny fairy names,Till swiftly over all the sky there ran the sunset flames;Then high into the glowing air they leapt with joyful shout,And with the ruddy shreds of mist they wrapped themselves about.
Into my quiet garden close they swiftly dropped again(The music of their merriment tinkled like falling rain);Laughing they swayed, while from their hair they shook thewarm perfume,Till all the place seemed filled with clouds of driftingdaphne bloom.
Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray,A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way?The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glenAnd I would fain go seeking till I find them once again.Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a lightTo find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.
Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please,Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys.I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fastThat nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past.I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go alongMy heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.
Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task,A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask:A pocketful of berries to thread in glowing strands(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands)So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy brightThey'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.
When the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear,Very softly chiming in, magically clear,Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notesOf fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats.
When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers,Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs,Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din—Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in.
When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls,Through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigalsAnd in wild November nights, on the winds astride,Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride.
Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake,Every lovely fragile hope—these the fairies take,Delicately fashion them and give them back againIn tender, limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men.
Over the field the fairies wentSinging and dancing and well content;Over the field of sweet warm grassI saw their shimmering cohorts pass.
The clover flamed to a ruddier glow,The slender buttercups curtseyed low,The wondering daisies, innocent-eyed,Bowed their heads to the radiant tide.
And flirting butterflies, pearly white,Left the flowers for a new delight,Left their loves for the fairies' sake,And fluttered dizzily in their wake.
Over the swaying grass they swept,Over the hedgerow soared and leapt,Broke and scattered in golden spray,Gleamed and glittered—and melted away.
I know an island in a lake,Green upon waters grey;It has a strange enchanted air;I hear the fairies singing thereWhen I go by that way.
They guard their hidden dwelling-placeWith bands of stalwart reeds,But sometimes, by a happy chance,I see them all come out and danceUpon the water-weeds.
One night, one summer night, I knowSuddenly I shall wake,And very softly hasten downAnd out beyond the sleeping townTo find my fairy lake.
I shall not need to seek a boat,It will be moored, I think,Within a tiny pebbled bayWhere meadow-sweet and mallow swayClose to the water's brink.
The moon from shore to shadowy shoreWill make a shining trail,And I shall sing their fairy songAs joyfully I float along—I shall not need a sail.
And peering through a starlit hazeI presently shall see,Where swift the waiting reeds unclose,The fairies all in rows and rowsWaiting to welcome me.
In Smith Square, Westminster, the houses stand so prim,With slender railings at their feet and windows straight and slim;And all day long they staidly stare with gentle placid gaze,And dream of joyous happenings in splendid bygone days.
In Smith Square, Westminster, you must not make a noise,No shrill-voiced vendors harbour there, no shouting errand-boys;But very busy gentlemen step swiftly out and inWith little leather cases and umbrellas neatly thin.
Yet sometimes when the summer night her starry curtain spreads,And all the busy gentlemen are sleeping in their beds,You hear a gentle humming like the humming of a hive,And Smith Square, Westminster, begins to come alive.
For all the houses start to sing, honey-sweet and low,The tender little lovely songs of long and long ago,And all the fairies round about come hastening up in crowds,Until the quiet air is filled with rainbow-coloured clouds.
On roof and rail and chimney-pot they delicately perch,They hang like jewelled fringes on the ledges of the church;They dance about the roadway upon nimble, noiseless feet,While the houses keep on chanting with a soft enticing beat.
And still they weave their sparkling webs and still theyleap and whirlUntil the far horizon's edge is faintly rimmed with pearl,And the morning breeze blows out the stars discreetly, one by one,And the sentries on the Abbey signal down—"The Sun—the Sun!"
And long before the butlers stumble drowsily downstairs,And long before their masters have begun to say their prayers,The fairies all have pranced away upon the morning beams,And Smith Square, Westminster, is wrapped once more in dreams.
She wanders in the forest with wide and solemn eyes;A little shade of wilderment across her forehead lies.
No timid woodland creature her footfall need affright,The shadow of her floating hair is not more soft and light.
She hears the gentle cadence of bird and wind and stream,They make a little song for her, like singing in a dream.
Across the distant valley the pleasant sunbeams fall;The children in the cowslip field merrily laugh and call.
She does not hear their laughter, she does not feel the sun,She cannot leave the shadowed wood until the spell is done.
What do you lack, queen, queen,That is precious and fine and rare?A jewelled snood that shall lie betweenThe delicate waves of your hair?I will ride through the sky on the evening windWith a golden needle and thread,And string up the tiniest stars I can find,To glitter about your head.
What can I do, queen, queen,To hasten the hours alongWhen you grow weary of woodland green,Weary of woodland song?A cage of gossamer gold I will tieOn to a skylark's wing,And there you shall hang in the midst of the skyAnd tremble to hear him sing.
Grant me a boon, queen, queen;This is the boon that I ask—Let me do service, mighty or mean,Give me a task, a task.Are there no jackanapes giants to slay?Are there no dragons to fight?Nothing shall daunt me by dark or by day;Make me your goblin knight!
Last night I heard a singing—a singing in my dreams,It wandered through my land of sleep like little silver streams;Like little purling silver streams that gently laugh and coo—Goblin with the shining eyes, goblin, was it you?
Softer than the tender croon of my happy doves,Sweeter than my nightingales pouring forth their loves,Clearer than my valiant lark triumphant in the blue;Goblin with the whimsic smile, goblin, was it you?
All night long the singer stayed close beside my bower,Weaving his enchanted songs, till that magic hourWhen the early morning light creeps across the dew;Goblin with the steadfast heart, goblin, was it you?
You perch upon the leaves where the trees are very high,And you all shout together as the wind goes by;The merry mad wind sets the leaves all afloat,And off you go a-sailing in an airy wee boat.
You fly to the edges of a grim grey cloud,And you all start a-dancing and a-singing very loud;The cloud melts away in a shower of peevish rainAnd you slide down from heaven on a slim silver chain.
The larch-tree gives them needlesTo stitch their gossamer things;Carefully, cunningly toils the oakTo shape the cups of the fairy folk;The sycamore gives them wings.
The lordly fir-tree rocks themHigh on his swinging sails;The hawthorn fashions their tiny spears;The whispering alder charms their earsWith soft, mysterious tales.
The chestnut gives them candlesTo make their ballroom fine;And the elder-bush and the hazel treeAssist their delicate revelryWith nuts and fragrant wine.
As I walked over Hollybush HillThe sun was low and the winds were still,And never a whispering branch I heardNor ever the tiniest call of a bird.
And when I came to the topmost heightOh, but I saw such a wonderful sight:All about on the hill-crest thereThe fairies danced in the golden air.
Danced and frolicked with never a soundIn and out in a magical round;Wide and wider the circle grewThen suddenly melted into the blue.
* * * * * * *
As I walked down into Eastnor ValeThe stars already were twinkling pale,And over the spaces of dew-white grassI saw a marvellous pageant pass.
Tiny riders on tiny steeds,Decked with blossoms and armed with reeds,With gossamer banners floating farAnd a radiant queen in an ivory car.
The beeches spread their petticoats wideAnd curtseyed low upon either side;The rabbits scurried across the gladeTo peep at the glittering cavalcade.
Far and farther I saw them goAnd vanish into the woods below;Then over the shadowy woodland waysI wandered home in a sweet amaze.
* * * * * * *
But Malvern people need fear no illSince fairies bide in their country still.
They sent a stout little red-breast bird;He sang from the garden wall;Surely, oh, surely the children heard,But never they came to his call.
They sent a capering, glad young breeze;He shouted, he rattled about;But the children sat with their books on their kneesAnd gave no heed to his shout.
They sent a bee in a velvet coat,Busily, busily gay;He hummed his tale on a spirited noteBut the children chased him away.
They sent a brave little fairy sprite;She peeped round the window frame;The children looked, and their eyes grew bright,And they came!
There is no road to Dunsley Glen,I should not know the way againBecause the fairies took me there,Down by a little rocky stair—A little stair all twists and turns,Half hidden by the spreading ferns.
High overhead the trees were green,With little bits of blue between,So high that they could see, I'm sure,Beyond the wood, beyond the moor,The water many miles awayMistily shining in the bay.
Deep in the glen a streamlet coolRan down into a magic pool,With mossy caverns all aboutWhere fairies fluttered in and out;Their sparkling wings and golden hairMade dancing twinkles here and there.
I stood and watched them at their playUntil I dared no longer stay;I knew that I might seek and seekOn every day of every weekEre I should find the place again—There is no road to Dunsley Glen.
Peacocks sweep the fairies' rooms;They use their folded tails for brooms;But fairy dust is brighter farThan any mortal colours are,And all about their tails it clingsIn strange designs of rounds and rings:And that is why they strut aboutAnd proudly spread their feathers out.
The Cuckoo is a tell-tale,A mischief-making bird;He flies to East, he flies to WestAnd whispers into every nestThe wicked things he's heard;He loves to spread his naughty lies,He laughs about it as he flies:"Cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo,It's true, it's true."
And when the fairies catch himHis busy wings they dock,They shut him up for evermore(He may not go beyond the door)Inside a wooden clock;Inside a wooden clock he cowersAnd has to tell the proper hours—"Cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo,It's true, it's true."
High in the elm-trees sit the rooks,Or flit about with busy looksAnd solemn, ceaseless caws.Small wonder they are so intent,They are the fairies' Parliament—They make the fairy laws.
They never seem to stop all day,And you can hear from far awayTheir busy chatter-chat.They work so very hard indeedYou'd wonder that the fairies needSo many laws as that.
The robin is the fairies' page;They keep him neatly dressedFor country service or for townIn dapper livery of brownAnd little scarlet vest.
On busy errands all day longHe hurries to and froWith watchful eyes and nimble wings—There are not very many thingsThe robin doesn't know.
And he can tell you, if he will,The latest fairy news:The quaint adventures of the King,And whom the Queen is visiting,And where she gets her shoes.
And lately, when the fairy CourtInvited me to tea,He stood behind the Royal Chair;And here I solemnly declare,When he discovered I was there.That robinwinkedat me.
The kindly cock is the fairies' friend,He warns them when their revels must end;He never forgets to give the word,For the cock is a thoroughly punctual bird.
And since he grieves that he never can fly.Like all the other birds, up in the sky,The fairies put him now and againHigh on a church for a weather-vane.
Little for sun or for rain he cares;He turns about with the proudest airsAnd chuckles with joy as the clouds go pastTo think he is up in the sky at last.
The Grouse that lives on the moorland wideIs filled with a most ridiculous pride;He thinks that it all belongs to him,And every one else must obey his whim.When the queer wee folk who live on the moorsCome joyfully leaping out of their doorsTo frisk about on the warm sweet heatherLaughing and chattering all together,He looks askance at their rollicking playAnd calls to them in the angriest way:"You're a feather-brained, foolish, frivolous pack,Go back, you rascally imps, go back!"
But little enough they heed his shout,Over the rocks they tumble about;They chase each other over the ling;They kick their heels in the heather and sing:"Oho, Mr. Grouse, you'd best beware,Or some fine day, if you don't take care,The witch who lives in the big brown bogWith a wise old weasel, a rat and a frog,Will come a-capering over the fellAnd put you under a horrible spell;Your feathers will moult and your voice will crack—Go back, you silly old bird, go back!"
Before I was a little girl I was a little bird,I could not laugh, I could not dance, I could not speak a word;But all about the woods I went and up into the sky—And isn't it a pity I've forgotten how to fly?
I often came to visit you. I used to sit and singUpon our purple lilac-bush that smells so sweet in Spring;But when you thanked me for my song of course you never knewI soon should be a little girl and come to live with you.
I wake in the morning earlyAnd always, the very first thing,I poke out my head and I sit up in bedAnd I sing and I sing and I sing.
There are no wolves in England now, nor any grizzly bears;You could not meet them after dark upon the attic stairs.
When Nanna goes to fetch the tea there is no need at allTo leave the nursery door ajar in case you want to call.
And mother says, in fairy tales, those bits are never trueThat tell you all the dreadful deeds that wicked fairies do.
And wouldn't it be silly for a great big girl like meTo be the leastest bit afraid of things that couldn't be?
As soon as I'm in bed at nightAnd snugly settled down,The little girl I am by dayGoes very suddenly away,And then I'm Mrs. Brown.
I have a family of six,And all of them have names,The girls are Joyce and Nancy Maud,The boys are Marmaduke and ClaudeAnd Percival and James.
We have a house with twenty roomsA mile away from town;I think it's good for girls and boysTo be allowed to make a noise—And so does Mr. Brown.
We do the most exciting things,Enough to make you creep;And on and on and on we go—I sometimes wonder if I knowWhen I have gone to sleep.
A little mountain spring I foundThat fell into a pool;I made my hands into a cupAnd caught the sparkling water up—It tasted fresh and cool.
A solemn little frog I spiedUpon the rocky brim;He looked so boldly in my face,I'm certain that he thought the placeBelonged by rights to him.
I like my cousin very muchBecause of course one should;She comes to spend the day with meAnd stays to dinner and to tea,And she is very good.
Her shining hair is smooth and neat,She always wears a plait,And French Translation she can doAnd Algebra and Science too,And clever things like that.
My Nanna thinks I ought to tryAnd copy Cousin Gwen;But I could never be like her,Indeed, indeed, I wish I were—Excepting now and then.
The butcher's shop is open wideAnd everyone can see inside;He stands behind the rows of meatAnd gazes out into the street.
He always wears a coat of blue,He has a linen apron too,And with his knife he rather looksLike ogres in the story-books.
He smiles and nods and says "Good-day"If nurse and I go by that wayWhen we are shopping in the town—I've never seen him sitting down.
The pillar-box is fat and red,It's mouth is very wide,It wears a Tammy on its head—It must be dark inside.
And really it's the greatest funWhen mother lets me stopAnd post the letters one by one—I like to hear them drop.
I'd like to be a dentist with a plate upon the doorAnd a little bubbling fountain in the middle of the floor;With lots of tiny bottles all arranged in coloured rowsAnd a page-boy with a line of silver buttons down his clothes.
I'd love to polish up the things and put them every dayInside the darling chests of drawers all tidily away;And every Sunday afternoon when nobody was thereI should go riding up and down upon the velvet chair.
I'm rather fond of medicine, especially if it's pink,Or else the fizzy-wizzy kind that makes you want to blink;And eucalyptus lozenges are very nice I think.
I like it when I'm really ill and have to stay in bedWith mother's grown-up pillows all frilly round my head;But measles is the funniest, because you get so red.
He is always standing thereAt the corner of the Square;He is very big and fineAnd his silver buttons shine.
All the carts and taxis doEverything he tells them to,And the little errand-boysWhen they pass him make no noise.
Though I seem so very smallI am not afraid at all;He and I are friends, you see,And he always smiles at me.
Once I wasn't very goodRather near to where he stood,But he never said a wordThough I'm sure he must have heard.
Nurse has a policeman too(Hers has brown eyes, mine has blue),Hers is sometimes on a horse,But I like mine best of course.
My porridge plate at Grannie's house is white and misty blue,And as I eat the porridge up the picture all comes through;There is a castle on a lake, a tall tall lady too.
The castle has a flight of steps and lots of pointed towers,A garden and a summer-house a little bit like ours,And trees with leaves like feathers and the most enormous flowers.
I don't care much for porridge in an ordinary way(Though it's jolly when there's treacle and your Nannalets you play),But when I stop at Grannie's house I like it every day.
Upon the magic green I stoodWithin the fairy ling,Close to the little rustling woodWhere fairies always sing.
I was a little bit afraid,I kept my eyes shut tight,While all around they danced and played—I felt the shining light.
Nearer and nearer still they came,They touched my dress, my hair;They called me softly by my name;I heard them everywhere.
I never moved, I never spoke(Oh, but my heart beat fast),And so the little fairy folkAll went away at last,
To-morrow I shall go againAnd seek the magic place,I shall not be so foolish then,I shall not hide my face.
But I shall stay for hours and hoursUntil the daylight ends,And we shall dance among the flowersAnd be the greatest friends.
And I shall learn their fairy song;And when I come awayShall dream of it the whole night longAnd sing it every day.
When I went to Fairyland, visiting the Queen,I rode upon a peacock, blue and gold and green;Silver was the harness, crimson were the reins,All hung about with little bells that swung on silken chains.
When I went to Fairyland, indeed you cannot thinkWhat pretty things I had to eat, what pretty things to drink.And did you know that butterflies could sing like little birds?And did you guess that fairy-talk is not a bit like words?
When I went to Fairyland—of all the lovely things!—They really taught me how to fly, they gave me fairy wings;And every night I listen for a tapping on the pane—I want so very much to go to Fairyland again.
Kindly little fairy friends,Here I fain would make amends;For I seek my verses through,Find no word of thanks to you.
Many, oh, so many timesYou have helped me with my rhymes;When my tiny songs were dumbOft and often have you come;Oft and often have I heard,Sweeter than the song of bird,Fairy voices, crystal-clear,Very softly at my ear(While you poised on fluttering wings)Telling me enchanting things.Often at the fall of night,In the gentle, dusky lightThrough my garden as I went,To my joy and wondermentSuddenly the air aroundBlossomed into lovely sound,And I knew that you were thereAll about me everywhere.
Could I tell what I have heard,Magic sound and magic word,There would be a book indeedFit for all the world to read.But alas!—For all my pains,Of those sweet mysterious strainsI can only hope to catchHere an echo, there a snatch.Yours is any happy line,All that's done amiss is mine.
The author's best thanks are due to the Editor and Proprietors ofPunch, through whose courtesy she is able to include in this collection a number of verses which have already appeared in that paper.
PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH.