"Sweet lady, look up."

"Alas!" said she, "they have sent for thy mother, and if she says thou art Little Boy they will kill thee, and, alas! I love thee."

"Ah!" he cried, "come to this tower at midnight, and cast me kisses a many through the night; blow a kiss to the north, blow a kiss to the south, to the east, to the west, from the flower of thy mouth and it may be that one will float to Fairy-land and fetch us help, for if not, I be but a dead man."

All this she did because she was brave and loved him. She stood in the dark and blew kisses to the four winds, and then listened, and by and by came a noise like great wings, and all the air was filled with strange, sweet odors, the like of which that Princess never smelled again.

As for Little Boy, he was aware of a Giant who was as tall as the tower. "Sir," said the Giant, "it is told me that you must keep your eyes shut until I bid them to open. I have brought the Kiss Queen to pay you a visit. No man has ever seen her; for if he did he could never, never kiss or be kissed of any mortal lips."

"Sir," said Little Boy, "the Princess is more sweet than any that kiss in Fairy-land."

"Prince," said the Giant, "your education has been but slight, or else you would know that all kisses are made in Fairy-land. But shut your eyes and stir not."

Then Little Boy did close his two eyes. At once he felt a tiny kiss from lips that might have been as long as one's fingernail, and once he was kissed on each cheek and once on his chin, and then he felt faint for a moment. All was still for a while, until the Giant said: "You are lucky. Open your eyes, Fair Sir," and went away.

Next day all the people came to see the King try Little Boy. When Little Boy saw his mother he was almost ready to cry, but he kept still and waited. Then the King said to her: "Tell me, is this your son? and do not deceive me, or dreadful things will happen to you and to him."

At this the good woman looked at him with care. "This looks like my son," she said; "but it is not my son, because this young man has a dimple on each cheek and one on his chin. Who ever saw any one with three dimples?"

When the King heard this and Little Boy's father declared also that his lost son had no dimples, the King bade them all go free, and said he had been now nine years angry about those bricks, and that whoever would find the bad brick-maker should marry the Princess. When Prince Little Boy heard this he said that he was the bad boy who had made those bricks. But the King was as good as his word, and ordered that the Prince should marry the Princess, and not have his head cut off, because the Princess did wisely say that a husband with no head wasn't much good as a husband. Therefore they were married that minute, and I have heard that they spent their honeymoon in Fairy-land. And this is the end of the Story of Prince Little Boy.



THE BEE-MAN OF ORN[E]

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

In the ancient country of Orn there lived an old man who was called the Bee-man, because his whole time was spent in the company of bees. He lived in a small hut, which was nothing more than an immense bee-hive, for these little creatures had built their honeycombs in every corner of the one room it contained—on the shelves, under the little table, all about the rough bench on which the old man sat, and even about the head-board and along the sides of his low bed.

All day the air of the room was thick with buzzing insects, but this did not interfere in any way with the old Bee-man, who walked in among them, ate his meals, and went to sleep, without the slightest fear of being stung.

He had lived with the bees so long, they had become so accustomed to him, and his skin was so tough and hard, that the bees no more thought of stinging him than they would of stinging a tree or a stone. A swarm of bees had made their hive in a pocket of his old leathern doublet; and when he put on this coat to take one of his long walks in the forest in search of wild bees' nests, he was very glad to have this hive with him, for, if he did not find any wild honey, he would put his hand in his pocket and take out a piece of a comb for a luncheon. The bees in his pocket worked very industriously, and he was always certain of having something to eat with him wherever he went. He lived principally upon honey; and when he needed bread or meat, he carried some fine combs to a village not far away and bartered them for other food. He was ugly, untidy, shrivelled, and brown. He was poor, and the bees seemed to be his only friends. But, for all that, he was happy and contented; he had all the honey he wanted, and his bees, whom he considered the best company in the world, were as friendly and sociable as they could be, and seemed to increase in number every day.

One day there stopped at the hut of the Bee-man a Junior Sorcerer. This young person, who was a student of magic, was much interested in the Bee-man, whom he had often noticed in his wanderings, and he considered him an admirable subject for study. He had got a great deal of useful practice by trying to find out, by the various rules and laws of sorcery, exactly why the old Bee-man did not happen to be something that he was not, and why he was what he happened to be. He had studied a long time at this matter, and had found out something.

"Do you know," he said, when the Bee-man came out of his hut, "that you have been transformed?"

"What do you mean by that?" said the other, much surprised.

"You have surely heard of animals and human beings who have been magically transformed into different kinds of creatures?"

"Yes, I have heard of these things," said the Bee-man; "but what have I been transformed from?"

"That is more than I know," said the Junior Sorcerer. "But one thing is certain; you ought to be changed back. If you will find out what you have been transformed from, I will see that you are made all right again. Nothing would please me better than to attend to such a case."

And, having a great many things to study and investigate, the Junior Sorcerer went his way.

This information greatly disturbed the mind of the Bee-man. If he had been changed from something else, he ought to be that other thing, whatever it was. He ran after the young man, and overtook him.

"If you know, kind sir," he said, "that I have been transformed, you surely are able to tell me what it is that I was."

"No," said the Junior Sorcerer, "my studies have not proceeded far enough for that. When I become a Senior I can tell you all about it. But, in the meantime, it will be well for you to try to find out for yourself your original form; and when you have done that, I will get some of the learned masters of my art to restore you to it. It will be easy enough to do that, but you could not expect them to take the time and trouble to find out what it was."

And, with these words, he hurried away, and was soon lost to view.

Greatly disturbed, the Bee-man retraced his steps, and went to his hut. Never before had he heard anything which had so troubled him.

"I wonder what I was transformed from?" he thought, seating himself on his rough bench. "Could it have been a giant, or a powerful prince, or some gorgeous being whom the magicians or the fairies wished to punish? It may be that I was a dog or a horse, or perhaps a fiery dragon or a horrid snake. I hope it was not one of these. But whatever it was, everyone has certainly a right to his original form, and I am resolved to find out mine. I will start early to-morrow morning; and I am sorry now that I have not more pockets to my old doublet, so that I might carry more bees and more honey for my journey."

He spent the rest of the day in making a hive of twigs and straw; and, having transferred to this a number of honeycombs and a colony of bees which had just swarmed, he rose before sunrise the next day, and having put on his leathern doublet and having bound his new hive to his back, he set forth on his quest, the bees who were to accompany him buzzing around him like a cloud.

As the Bee-man pressed through the little village the people greatly wondered at his queer appearance, with the hive upon his back. "The Bee-man is going on a long journey this time," they said; but no one imagined the strange business on which he was bent.

About noon he sat down under a tree, near a beautiful meadow covered with blossoms, and ate a little honey. Then he untied his hive and stretched himself out on the grass to rest. As he gazed upon his bees hovering about him, some going out to the blossoms in the sunshine, and some returning laden with the sweet pollen, he said to himself: "They know just what they have to do, and they do it; but alas for me! I know not what I may have to do. And yet, whatever it may be, I am determined to do it. In some way or other I will find out what was my original form, and then I will have myself changed back to it."

And now the thought came to him that perhaps his original form might have been something very disagreeable, or even horrid.

"But it does not matter," he said sturdily. "Whatever I was that shall I be again. It is not right for anyone to keep a form which does not properly belong to him. I have no doubt I shall discover my original form in the same way that I find the trees in which the wild bees hive. When I first catch sight of a bee tree I am drawn toward it, I know not how. Something says to me: 'That is what you are looking for.' In the same way I believe that I shall find my original form. When I see it, I shall be drawn toward it. Something will say to me: 'That is it.'"

When the Bee-man was rested he started off again, and in about an hour he entered a fair domain. Around him were beautiful lawns, grand trees, and lovely gardens; while at a little distance stood the stately palace of the Lord of the Domain. Richly dressed people were walking about or sitting in the shade of the trees and arbors; splendidly equipped horses were waiting for their riders; and everywhere were seen signs of wealth and gayety.

"I think," said the Bee-man to himself, "that I should like to stop here for a time. If it should happen that I was originally like any of these happy creatures it would please me much."

He untied his hive, and hid it behind some bushes, and, taking off his old doublet, laid that beside it. It would not do to have his bees flying about him if he wished to go among the inhabitants of this fair domain.

For two days the Bee-man wandered about the palace and its grounds, avoiding notice as much as possible, but looking at everything. He saw handsome men and lovely ladies; the finest horses, dogs, and cattle that were ever known; beautiful birds in cages, and fishes in crystal globes; and it seemed to him that the best of all living-things were here collected.

At the close of the second day the Bee-man said to himself: "There is one being here toward whom I feel very much drawn, and that is the Lord of the Domain. I cannot feel certain that I was once like him, but it would be a very fine thing if it were so; and it seems impossible for me to be drawn toward any other being in the domain when I look upon him, so handsome, rich, and powerful. But I must observe him more closely, and feel more sure of the matter, before applying to the sorcerers to change me back into a lord of a fair domain."

The next morning the Bee-man saw the Lord of the Domain walking in his gardens. He slipped along the shady paths, and followed him so as to observe him closely, and find out if he were really drawn toward this noble and handsome being. The Lord of the Domain walked on for some time, not noticing that the Bee-man was behind him. But suddenly turning, he saw the little old man.

"What are you doing here, you vile beggar?" he cried; and he gave him a kick that sent him into some bushes which grew by the side of the path.

The Bee-man scrambled to his feet, and ran as fast as he could to the place where he had hidden his hive and his old doublet.

"If I am certain of anything," he thought, "it is that I was never a person who would kick a poor old man. I will leave this place. I was transformed from nothing that I see here."

He now traveled for a day or two longer, and then he came to a great black mountain, near the bottom of which was an opening like the mouth of a cave.



This mountain he had heard was filled with caverns and underground passages, which were the abodes of dragons, evil spirits, and horrid creatures of all kinds.

"Ah me!" said the Bee-man with a sigh, "I suppose I ought to visit this place. If I am going to do this thing properly, I should look on all sides of the subject, and I may have been one of those horrid creatures myself."

Thereupon he went to the mountain, and as he approached the opening of the passage which led into its inmost recesses, he saw, sitting upon the ground, and leaning his back against a tree, a Languid Youth.

"Good-day," said this individual when he saw the Bee-man. "Are you going inside?"

"Yes," said the Bee-man, "that is what I intend to do."

"Then," said the Languid Youth, slowly rising to his feet, "I think I will go with you. I was told that if I went in there I should get my energies toned up, and they need it very much; but I did not feel equal to entering by myself, and I thought I would wait until some one came along. I am very glad to see you, and we will go in together."

So the two went into the cave, and they had proceeded but a short distance when they met a very little creature, whom it was easy to recognize as a Very Imp. He was about two feet high, and resembled in color a freshly polished pair of boots. He was extremely lively and active, and came bounding toward them.

"What did you two people come here for?" he asked.

"I came," said the Languid Youth, "to have my energies toned up."

"You have come to the right place," said the Very Imp. "We will tone you up. And what does that old Bee-man want?"

"He has been transformed from something, and wants to find out what it is. He thinks he may have been one of the things in here."

"I should not wonder if that were so," said the Very Imp, rolling his head on one side, and eying the Bee-man with a critical gaze.

"All right," said the Very Imp; "he can go around, and pick out his previous existence. We have here all sorts of vile creepers, crawlers, hissers, and snorters. I suppose he thinks anything will be better than a Bee-man."

"It is not because I want to be better than I am," said the Bee-man, "that I started out on this search. I have simply an honest desire to become what I originally was."

"Oh; that is it, is it?" said the other. "There is an idiotic moon-calf here with a clam head, which must be just what you used to be."

"Nonsense," said the Bee-man. "You have not the least idea what an honest purpose is. I shall go about and see for myself."

"Go ahead," said the Very Imp, "and I will attend to this fellow who wants to be toned up." So saying he joined the Languid Youth.

"Look here," said the Youth, "do you black and shine yourself every morning?"

"No," said the other, "it is water-proof varnish. You want to be invigorated, don't you? Well, I will tell you a splendid way to begin. You see that Bee-man has put down his hive and his coat with the bees in it. Just wait till he gets out of sight, and then catch a lot of those bees, and squeeze them flat. If you spread them on a sticky rag, and make a plaster, and put it on the small of your back, it will invigorate you like everything, especially if some of the bees are not quite dead."

"Yes," said the Languid Youth, looking at him with his mild eyes, "but if I had energy enough to catch a bee I would be satisfied. Suppose you catch a lot for me."

"The subject is changed," said the Very Imp. "We are now about to visit the spacious chamber of the King of the Snap-dragons."

"That is a flower," said the Languid Youth.

"You will find him a gay old blossom," said the other. "When he has chased you round his room, and has blown sparks at you, and has snorted and howled, and cracked his tail, and snapped his jaws like a pair of anvils, your energies will be toned up higher than ever before in your life."

"No doubt of it," said the Languid Youth; "but I think I will begin with something a little milder."

"Well, then," said the other, "there is a flat-tailed Demon of the Gorge in here. He is generally asleep, and, if you say so, you can slip into the farthest corner of his cave, and I'll solder his tail to the opposite wall. Then he will rage and roar, but he can't get at you, for he doesn't reach all the way across his cave; I have measured him. It will tone you up wonderfully to sit there and watch him."

"Very likely," said the Languid Youth; "but I would rather stay outside and let you go up in the corner. The performance in that way will be more interesting to me."

"You are dreadfully hard to please," said the Very Imp. "I have offered them to you loose, and I offered them fastened to a wall, and now the best thing I can do is to give you a chance at one of them that can't move at all. It is the Ghastly Griffin, and is enchanted. He can't stir so much as the tip of his whiskers for a thousand years. You can go to his cave and examine him just as if he were stuffed, and then you can sit on his back and think how it would be if you should live to be a thousand years old, and he should wake up while you are sitting there. It would be easy to imagine a lot of horrible things he would do to you when you look at his open mouth with its awful fangs, his dreadful claws, and his horrible wings all covered with spikes."

"I think that might suit me," said the Languid Youth. "I would much rather imagine the exercises of these monsters than to see them really going on."

"Come on, then," said the Very Imp; and he led the way to the cave of the Ghastly Griffin.

The Bee-man went by himself through a great part of the mountain, and looked into many of its gloomy caves and recesses, recoiling in horror from most of the dreadful monsters who met his eyes. While he was wandering about, an awful roar was heard resounding through the passages of the mountain, and soon there came flapping along an enormous dragon, with body black as night, and wings and tail of fiery red. In his great fore-claws he bore a little baby.

"Horrible!" exclaimed the Bee-man. "He is taking that little creature to his cave to devour it."

He saw the dragon enter a cave not far away, and, following, looked in. The dragon was crouched upon the ground with the little baby lying before him. It did not seem to be hurt, but was frightened and crying. The monster was looking upon it with delight, as if he intended to make a dainty meal of it as soon as his appetite should be a little stronger.

"It is too bad!" thought the Bee-man. "Somebody ought to do something." And turning around, he ran away as fast as he could.

He ran through various passages until he came to the spot where he had left his bee-hive. Picking it up, he hurried back, carrying the hive in his two hands before him. When he reached the cave of the dragon, he looked in and saw the monster still crouched over the weeping child. Without a moment's hesitation, the Bee-man rushed into the cave and threw his hive straight into the face of the dragon. The bees, enraged by the shock, rushed upon the head, mouth, eyes, and nose of the dragon.

The great monster, astounded by this sudden attack, and driven almost wild by the numberless stings of the bees, sprang back to the farthest corner of his cave, still followed by the bees, at whom he flapped wildly with his great wings and struck with his paws. While the dragon was thus engaged with the bees, the Bee-man rushed forward, and seizing the child, he hurried away. He did not stop to pick up his doublet, but kept on until he saw the Very Imp hopping along on one leg, and rubbing his back and shoulders with his hands, and stopped to inquire what was the matter, and what had become of the Languid Youth.

"He is no kind of a fellow," said the Very Imp. "He disappointed me dreadfully. I took him up to the Ghastly Griffin, and told him the thing was enchanted, and that he might sit on its back and think about what it could do if it was awake; and when he came near it the wretched creature opened its eyes, and raised its head, and then you ought to have seen how mad that simpleton was. He made a dash at me and seized me by the ears; he kicked and beat me till I can scarcely move."

"His energies must have been toned up a good deal," said the Bee-man.

"Toned up! I should say so!" cried the other. "I raised a howl, and a Scissor-jawed Clipper came out of his hole, and got after him; but that lazy fool ran so fast that he could not be caught."

The Bee-man now ran on and soon overtook the Languid Youth.

"You need not be in a hurry now," said the latter, "for the rules of this institution don't allow the creatures inside to come out of this opening, or to hang around it. If they did, they would frighten away visitors. They go in and out of holes in the upper part of the mountain."

The two proceeded on their way.

"What are you going to do with that baby?" said the Languid Youth.

"I shall carry it along with me," said the Bee-man, "as I go on with my search, and perhaps I may find its mother. If I do not, I shall give it to somebody in that little village yonder. Anything would be better than leaving it to be devoured by that horrid dragon."

"Let me carry it, I feel quite strong enough now to carry a baby."

"Thank you," said the Bee-man; "but I can take it myself. I like to carry something, and I have now neither my hive nor my doublet."

"It is very well that you had to leave them behind," said the Youth, "for the bees would have stung the baby."

"My bees never sting babies," said the other.

"They probably never had a chance," remarked his companion.

They soon entered the village, and after walking a short distance the Youth exclaimed: "Do you see that woman over there sitting at the door of her house? She has beautiful hair, and she is tearing it all to pieces. She should not be allowed to do that."

"No," said the Bee-man. "Her friends should tie her hands."

"Perhaps she is the mother of this child," said the Youth, "and if you give it to her she will no longer think of tearing her hair."

"But," said the Bee-man, "you don't really think this is her child?"

"Suppose you go over and see," said the other.

The Bee-man hesitated a moment, and then he walked toward the woman. Hearing him coming, she raised her head, and when she saw the child she rushed toward it, snatched it into her arms, and screaming with joy she covered it with kisses. Then with happy tears she begged to know the story of the rescue of her child, whom she never expected to see again; and she loaded the Bee-man with thanks and blessings. The friends and neighbors gathered around, and there was great rejoicing. The mother urged the Bee-man and the Youth to stay with her, and rest and refresh themselves, which they were glad to do, as they were tired and hungry.

They remained at the cottage all night, and in the afternoon of the next day the Bee-man said to the Youth: "It may seem an odd thing to you, but never in all my life have I felt myself drawn toward any living being as I am drawn toward this baby. Therefore I believe that I have been transformed from a baby."

"Good!" cried the Youth. "It is my opinion that you have hit the truth. And now would you like to be changed back to your original form?"

"Indeed I would!" said the Bee-man. "I have the strongest yearning to be what I originally was."

The Youth, who had now lost every trace of languid feeling, took a great interest in the matter, and early the next morning started off to tell the Junior Sorcerer that the Bee-man had discovered what he had been transformed from, and desired to be changed back to it.

The Junior Sorcerer and his learned Masters were filled with delight when they heard this report, and they at once set out for the mother's cottage. And there by magic arts the Bee-man was changed back into a baby. The mother was so grateful for what the Bee-man had done for her that she agreed to take charge of this baby, and to bring it up as her own.

"It will be a grand thing for him," said the Junior Sorcerer, "and I am glad that I studied his case. He will now have a fresh start in life, and will have a chance to become something better than a miserable old man living in a wretched hut with no friends or companions but buzzing bees."

The Junior Sorcerer and his Masters then returned to their homes, happy in the success of their great performance; and the Youth went back to his home anxious to begin a life of activity and energy.

Years and years afterward, when the Junior Sorcerer had become a Senior and was very old indeed, he passed through the country of Orn, and noticed a small hut about which swarms of bees were flying. He approached it, and looking in at the door he saw an old man in a leathern doublet, sitting at a table, eating honey. By his magic art he knew this was the baby which had been transformed from the Bee-man.

"Upon my word!" exclaimed the Sorcerer, "he has grown into the same thing again!"

[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 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 suitableness of 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 believe me, 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-clear At the rainbow's foot on the dark green hill? 'Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a year Has 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-clear At 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 year Has 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 it was, 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 an angel 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.









THE FAIRY THORN

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 reel Around 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 grow Beside 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 lie In 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 tranced 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 DAYS

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 knee And takes the lady's hand and whispers, "You are free." Ah! happy childish tales of knight and faerie! I waken from my dreams, but there's ne'er a knight for me; I waken from my dreams, and wish that I could be A child by the old hall-fire upon my nurse's knee!







THE FAIRY QUEEN

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 foul With 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 wheat Is 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 grass So nimbly do we pass, The young and tender stalk Ne'er bends when we do walk; Yet in the morning may be seen Where we the night before have been.



THE SEA PRINCESS

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 shadows Of great whales passing by, Or white-winged vessels sailing Between the sea and sky.

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

Or sees the ships' sides tower Above 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 spells From the water-witch, gray and ancient, And hearing the tales she tells.

Out in the stable her sea-horse Champs in his crystal stall; And fishes with scales that glisten Come leaping forth at her call.

So the little Sea Princess Is busy and happy all day, Just as the human children Are busy and happy at play.

And when the darkness gathers Over the lonely deep, On a bed of velvet sea-weed The Princess is rocked to sleep.



LONG AGO

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

Then the little children never Teased their mothers; And little sisters always Loved 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 HARRISON

Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel, Dancing in the sunlight; Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel, With your silver wings, Will you come and live with me In 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 silver Sewn 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' silver Is a fairy gown.

Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel, Dancing in the starlight; Thistle-Tassel, Thistle-Tassel, With a bright penny You shall buy the sugar plums, And the honey when it comes, Very sweet, and golden-glowing As 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 money In 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 music Where 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 me Fairer 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 FAIRY

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.







THE FAIRIES

BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

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

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

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her 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 since Deep 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-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For 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 BAYLY

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

Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o'er the plain, And draughts of dew they cannot sip Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small blue diving-bells They plunge beneath the waves— Inhabiting the wreathed shells That lie in coral caves. Perhaps in red Vesuvius Carousal they maintain; And cheer their little spirits thus Till 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 mirth And 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.







THE ELF OF THE WOODLANDS

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 trips On tiptoe And sliptoe He 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, Grandmother Grey 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 stem Its 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 to steal cake and drink 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 side With 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 look Over the lawn and hayrick-cone.

Within the open lattice crept Some 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 flower Places 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 gone Into the woodlands wild, Leaving his blessing thus to shine Upon the sleeping child."



PRINCESS FINOLA AND THE DWARF[H]

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 hum of 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 the ocean, 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 waters of 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.