PHIL'S FAIRIES.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS,
Author of "Princess Idleways," etc.
Chapter XI.
A PAIR OF CRUTCHES.
Aunt Rachel's plan was entered into most heartily by both boys, and Graham became so much interested as to act as express agent on his own account, going to the city with what he called his first load of berries and flowers; but on his return was so silent and uncommunicative that Phil asked him if anything had gone wrong.
"Don't ask me to tell you what I saw," said he, in reply. "It was more than I could stand." Then, as if sorry for his short answer, he added: "It was the most pitiful thing in the world—such a lot of little pale faces all together! and when I came to give them their share, as the lady in charge told me to do, I cried right out like any baby—there, now! But you have no idea how they brightened up, and how glad they looked when they took the posies. I don't want to go again, though, unless Miss Rachel asks me to. I shall see those poor wizened little things as long as I live. I am going to sell all my pets this fall, and give the money to St. Luke's Hospital, and I shall sell every egg my chickens lay, for the same purpose."
After that Phil asked no more questions, but worked harder than ever at his drawings, and as the season advanced, and flowers and fruit grew more abundant, they were able to dispatch a basket twice a week.
Every day was filled with new life and pleasure. Increasing strength alone would have been a source of happiness, but in addition to this Phil had the benefit of Aunt Rachel's loving-kindness, Lisa's nursing, Joe's good offices, and Graham's pleasant, friendly attentions. Then he was learning constantly something new, with eyes and ears, from the book of nature, with all its wonderful pictures, and from the other books allowed him.
Driving behind old Slow Coach and floating on the lake in the Flyaway were some of the delights, and when more visitors came, and two charming young cousins of Aunt Rachel made the house resound with melody, Phil thought his happiness complete. But a new surprise was in store for him, when, after repeated consultations, and measurements, and whisperings, a huge parcel was brought to his room, and Aunt Rachel and Lisa took off the wrappings. Neither of them looked particularly joyful as a pair of stout crutches made their appearance, but their faces changed wonderfully when Phil gave a cry of glee, and said, hilariously, "Now I can walk! now I can walk!"
He was eager to use his new helps, but it took a longer time than he had imagined to get accustomed to them, and it was many weeks before he could go down the garden paths (followed by Nep with much gravity, as if Phil were in his especial care) with desirable ease.
Coming in from one of these rather tiresome attempts one warm morning, and hearing music and voices in the parlor, Phil strayed into the dining-room, which was darkened and cool, and fragrant with fresh flowers. He lay down on a lounge, with his crutches beside him, and was listening to the pretty waltz being played in the other room, when he thought he saw a tiny creature light upon one of his crutches. Supposing it, however, to be a butterfly, he watched it in a sleepy, dreamy fashion, until it approached more nearly, and these words startled him:
"You do not know me," said a tiny voice, rather reproachfully.
"What! is it you, my dear little wind fairy?" he asked. "I never dreamed that I should see you again. How did you get here?"
"Blown here, to be sure, as I always am, only I have to pilot myself, or what would be the use in having wings? I came on some thistle-down this time, for I wanted to have another peep at you, and I have had hard work to follow you in here, I assure you; but the vibrations of that lovely music helped me, and here I am. Do not talk—let me do it all. I never have much time, you know, and I want to thank you for your goodness in taking my advice, and helping some of my little sick friends. You do not begin to know what good you have done—nobody does; but doing good is very like the big snow-balls that children make in winter—a little ball at first, but as they roll, it grows bigger and bigger, almost of itself, until it is more than one can manage. So it has been with your kind action: many have imitated it, and flowers come now to the hospitals by the bushel. Not only children, but grown people, sad with suffering, have been cheered and benefited. And you too are growing strong: how glad I am to see it! Your cheeks are tinged with just a delicate bloom, and you have grown taller. Ah, the country is the place for you children! I saw one of your sketches in the hospital the other day, hung under a little cross made of moss; it was a water-lily, and out of it was stepping some one who looked like me. The child who owned it said it came to her tied to some roses. She did not know I heard her; she was telling a visitor, and she said it made her happy every time she looked at it. That was a pretty thought of yours. This is my last visit for a long while. I am to be sent off to fan her Royal Highness, the Queen of Kind Wishes, when her coronation takes place. She lives in her palace of Heart's Ease in a faraway island. I am to sail part of the way in a nautilus—one of those lovely shells you have seen, I dare say."
"No," said Phil, "I never saw one. And so you are going away—"
"Never saw a nautilus!" interrupted the fairy, as if afraid Phil was going to be doleful over her departure. "It looks like a ship, for all the world, and it is a ship for me, but it would not hold you—oh no! not such a gigantic creature as a boy;" and the fairy laughed aloud.
"Dear me!" said Phil; "no more visits, no more fairy stories. What will I do?"
"Shall I tell you just one more story before I say good-by?"
"Please do."
"Well, shut your eyes and listen."
Phil obeyed, and the fairy began:
In the days when fairies had much more power than they now have, there lived in a little house on the edge of a wood haunted by elves and brownies a boy named Arthur. He was a bright, handsome lad, but a little lazy, and much more fond of pleasure than of work; and he had a way of flinging himself down in the woods to lounge and sleep when his mother at home was waiting for him to come back with a message, or to do some little promised task. Now the fairies knew this, and it displeased them; for they are as busy as bees, and do not like idleness. Besides, as one bad habit leads to another, Arthur, in his lounging ways, would often do great damage to the fairies' flower beds, switching off the heads of wild flowers in the most ruthless fashion, and even pulling them up by the roots when he felt like it.
THE ENCHANTED FROG AND THE LITTLE BROWN BIRD.
One day he had been indulging this whim without any motive, hardly even thinking what he was doing, when he began to feel very strangely: a slight chill made him shiver; his eyes felt as if they were coming out of his head, his legs as if they were getting smaller and smaller; he had an irresistible desire to hop, and he was very thirsty. There was a rivulet near, and instead of walking to it, he leaped, and stooping to drink, he saw himself reflected in its smooth surface. No longer did he see Arthur; no longer was he a mortal boy. Instead of this, a frog—a green speckled frog, with great bulging eyes and a fishy mouth—looked up at him. He tried to call, to shout, but in vain; he could only croak, and this in the most dismal manner. What was he to do? Sit and stare about him, try to catch flies, plunge down into the mud—charming amusements for the rest of his life! A little brown bird hopped down for a drink from the rivulet; she stooped and rose, stooped and rose, again and again.
A great green tear rolled down from the frog's bulging eye, and splashed beside the bird's drinking-place. She looked up in alarm, and said, in the sweetest voice imaginable,
"Can I do anything to assist you?"
"I am sure I don't know," croaked Arthur, hoarse as if he had been born with a sore throat.
"But what is the matter?" persisted the little brown bird, as more green tears splashed beside her.
"The matter is that I am a frog, I suppose," said Arthur, rather rudely.
"Well, what of that?" still said the little bird. "Frogs are very respectable."
"Are they, indeed; then I'd rather not be respectable," said Arthur.
"You shock me," said the bird.
"I don't wonder; it has been a great shock to me," responded Arthur.
"What has?" said the bird.
"Being a frog," replied Arthur.
"Have you not always? Oh no; I presume you were once a tadpole; all frogs are at first."
"Indeed I never was a tadpole," said Arthur, indignantly; and then, it seeming somewhat a funny idea to him, he began to laugh in the hoarsest, croakiest kerthumps, which brought him to his senses again. Then he added, to the little brown bird, which fluttered about him in some agitation, "No, I never was a tadpole—I was a boy named Arthur a few moments ago."
"Aha!" twittered the little brown bird, "I see now: you have been bewitched."
"I suppose so," said Arthur; "and I would gladly be beswitched into a boy again, if that would do any good."
"I must try and see what I can do for you. I am very busy repairing my nest—it was injured in the last storm; but I will go as soon as I can to see one of the herb elves, and find out what is to be done. You must have displeased them very much."
"You are very kind," replied Arthur, taking no notice of the latter words.
"Oh no, not at all; it is a pleasure," said the little brown bird.
"Can I do anything for you?" asked Arthur, roused into politeness by the pleasant manners of his little friend.
"You might gather some twigs or moss. Oh no, it would be all wet, and I should have great bother in drying it," said the little housekeeper. "I am equally obliged, but you had better just stay quiet and keep cool till I return;" and she flew softly away.
"I can keep cool enough," repeated Arthur; "when one's legs are in the water, it would be pretty hard to do anything else."
It seemed dreadfully long to wait, when all he could do was to wink, and yawn, and gobble flies, and yet lounging in the woods and killing flowers had never seemed tedious when he was a boy. He tried to go to sleep, but was in too great a bewilderment to quietly close his eyes in slumber, so he gazed at the brook, and wondered when the little brown bird would re-appear.