And then it dreams of pleasant things,
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish:
Of arbors filled with dainty scents
From lovely flowers that never fade;
Bright flies that glitter in the sun,
And glow-worms shining in the shade:
And talking birds with gifted tongues,
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.
But when a bad child goes to bed,
From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!
Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,
To shed the blood of girls and boys.
Then stormy waves rush on to drown,
Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air,
And serpents crawl along the ground.
Then wicked children wake and weep,
And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.
Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf,
Out of the rain, to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool sound asleep,
Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet
Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter-maybe a mile!
Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.
Holding it over him, gayly he flew.
Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.
Soon woke the Dormouse-"Good gracious me!
"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented. -And that's how umbrellas first were invented. Oliver Herford
I met a little Elf-man, once,
Down where the lilies blow.
I asked him why he was so small,
And why he didn't grow.
He slightly frowned, and with his eye
He looked me through and through.
"I'm quite as big for me," said he,
"As you are big for you."
The white goat Amaryllis,
She wandered at her will
At time of daffodillies
Afar and up the hill:
We hunted and we holloa'd
And back she came at dawn,
But what d'you think had followed?—
A little, pagan Faun!
His face was like a berry,
His ears were high and pricked:
Tip-tap-his hoofs came merry
As up the path he clicked;
A junket for his winning
We set in dairy delf;
He eat it peart and grinning
As Christian as yourself!
He stayed about the steading
A fortnight, say, or more;
A blanket for his bedding
We spread beside the door;
And when the cocks crowed clearly
Before the dawn was ripe,
He'd call the milkmaids cheerly
Upon a reedy pipe!
That fortnight of his staying
The work went smooth as silk:
The hens were all in laying,
The cows were all in milk;
And then-and then one morning
The maids woke up at day
Without his oaten warning,—
And found he'd gone away.
He left no trace behind him;
But still the milkmaids deem
That they, perhaps, may find him
With butter and with cream:
Beside the door they set them
In bowl and golden pat,
But no one comes to get them—
Unless, maybe, the cat.
The white goat Amaryllis,
She wanders at her will
At time of daffodillies,
Away up Woolcombe hill;
She stays until the morrow,
Then back she comes at dawn;
But never-to our sorrow-
The little, pagan Faun.
Where do you think the fairies go
To buy their blankets ere the snow?
When Autumn comes, with frosty days,
The sorry, shivering little Fays
Begin to think it's time to creep
Down to their caves for Winter sleep.
But first they come from far and near
To buy, where shops are not too dear.
(The wind and frost bring prices down, So Fall's their time to come to town!)
Where on the hill-side rough and steep
Browse all day long the cows and sheep,
The mullein's yellow candles burn
Over the heads of dry sweet fern:
All summer long the mullein weaves
His soft and thick and woolly leaves.
Warmer blankets were never seen
Than these broad leaves of fuzzy green.
(The cost of each is but a shekel Made from the gold of honeysuckle!)
To buy their sheets and fine white lace,
With which to trim a pillow-case,
They only have to go next door,
Where stands a sleek brown spider's store,
And there they find the misty threads
Ready to cut into sheets and spreads;
Then, for a pillow, pluck with care
Some soft-winged seeds as light as air;
Just what they want the thistle brings,
But thistles are such surly things-
And so, though it is somewhat high,
The clematis the Fairies buy.
The only bedsteads that they need
Are silky pods of ripe milk-weed,
With hangings of the dearest things-
Autumn leaves, or butterflies' wings!
And dandelions' fuzzy heads
They use to stuff their featherbeds;
And yellow snapdragons supply
The nightcaps that the Fairies buy,
To which some blades of grass they pin,
And tie them 'neath each little chin.
Then, shopping done, the Fairies cry, "Our Summer's gone! oh sweet, good-bye!"
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