he fairies (all.

RANDMA, there are lots of fairies where we live, for I have
heard them laugh and sing and play in the moonlight. You
know we have no dreary winters where my fairies live; no cold,
white snow covers the pretty, green grass, the wind is not
chilly, and the flowers never die; the leaves never turn brown,

@ nor are the trees ever bare, and the birds sing all the year
round. The fairies are perfectly happy, for, of course, they could not live
without flowers, birds, and moonlight.

Sometimes, when the moon is so bright, it makes me think it is time to get
up. I go to the window and listen. The wind that comes from where the sun
has gone to bed begins to sing just like the organinchurch. First the fire-flies
and the glow-worms light up the fairy ball-room, until the lovely pine-woods

look like the place God makes the stars in. Then the grasshoppers and crick-
ets, bugs and bees begin to: tune up their horns and fiddles, while some of the
birds join in the fairies’ orchestra. “One funny old bird keeps tap-tapping on
an old tree and thinks he is playing the drum. A pretty black-bird, with a red
breast and yellow wings, has a flageolet; the other instruments are all taken
by the mocking-bird, and whenever he sings, or plays, a solo, everybody hushes
to listen. There is a chorus of voices, too, one big bird singing quite distinct-
ly the words ‘‘Ever more, ever more,” and the other birds sing out whenever
they have a chance.

- After the band are all in their places, the leat -dids and katy-didn’ts begin
scolding, and making the fairies hurry up; soon they begin to tiptoe, tiptoe o over
the grass, making ready for dancing and ring-around-a-rosy.

The old owl is floor-manager, and he says: “To which, to who, to which,
to who?”

Another bird, who wants to help manage, says: ‘ Choose Will’s widow!
choose Will’s widow!” while everybody looks at a pretty little fairy, all in
green and gold, with the tiniest little feet, standing pouting ata little boy fairy,
who is teasing her, and I can just hear her say:

 

“ Blow, breezes, blow,

Let Colin’s hat go;

O’er hills and dale let it be whirled,

Till I get my hair all curled and curled.”

Then a bird sings out loud, “ Whip-poor-will! whip-poor-will!” and every-