Near the centre of the field was a “fairy ring” of mushrooms about twelve feet across. The beginning of these rings may be a single mushroom which drops its spores in a circle about its base. The next season a smaller ring of mushrooms drops a larger ring of spores, and so the circle expands year by year, exactly as the ripple spread out on the surface of a pond when a stone is cast into the water.
Some fairy rings have been estimated to be six hundred years old. Legend informs us that these rings are magic circles within which elves and other nimble fairy folk hold their revels at midnight. There is another superstition that the rings mark the spots where bolts of lightning have struck the ground.
“A fairy-land!” breathed Donald as he stepped into the open.
It was warm, but now and again a breeze, that had swept between snow-capped peaks, dropped down into the valley and made the pines sway and the willow and alder leaves coolly rustle. At the time of these visitations Donald threw back his head and drew in deep breaths of the flower-scented breeze.
Making his way to the foot of the tiny falls, Donald seated himself on a soft bed of moss and proceeded to eat his lunch. Two birds, of the species known as “camp-robbers” or “whiskey-jacks,” dropped ghost-like from nowhere and eyed him reproachfully. He threw them a crust of bread. There was a shrill cry like that of a hawk, that sent the feathered visitors in terror to the safety of the trees, and a flash of blue landed on the bread. With a chuckle, almost human a bluejay flew to the top of a spruce to enjoy his meal at leisure.
Donald’s happy laugh rang throughout the sylvan glade and was re-echoed mockingly from the cliffs. The camp-robbers emerged from their retreat looking rather crestfallen. They took no chances with the crust thrown to them the second time. Each seized a generous portion and retreated hastily.
Donald selected a soft spot in the shade of a small grove of cedars, stretched himself at full length on his back, and lighted a cigarette. The sound of murmuring waters, the rustle of leaves, the gentle sighing of the pines, and the fragrant, balmy air that fanned his face held a soporific influence. He watched a fleecy cloud floating far above the tree-tops in the ethereal blue. A long-tailed wren, of the white throat and white eye lines sang joyously from a tree nearby.
Donald’s eyes closed slowly, and in a moment he was in a doze. As though in a dream he felt something brush his face and he shook his head. An instant later the tip of a cedar bough fell fairly on his face. He brushed quickly with his hand as though to dislodge a fly. A larger branch fell with a gentle swish to land on his nose. This time he opened his eyes and plucked the branch from his face, noticing as he did so that it was freshly broken. “Odd,” he thought, and lay with eyes half closed to detect the cause of this singular occurrence.
Near the top of the four small cedars under which he lay there seemed to be a nest-like thickness. There was a movement in the tops of the trees, and Donald’s amazed eyes saw a little brown hand steal forth holding a cedar tip. Then a small childish face appeared, surrounded by a mass of lovely golden hair. The face was one of sheer, exquisite blonde beauty, marked by a pair of wide, roguish blue eyes, as blue as pansies, a small pensive mouth that formed a cupid’s bow, and an impudent little nose dotted with freckles. As the slender hand loosed the branch, Donald’s astonished eyes looked up directly into the blue ones looking down on him so full of mischief. There was a startled gasp and the golden head disappeared amid a great swaying of branches.
Donald came slowly to his feet, rubbing his eyes. Was this a fantastic dream, or had he actually seen a child’s face? He looked at the branches on the ground, and again his eyes sought the tree-tops. He could now see that some sort of big nest was built within the tops of the four small cedars.