The guardian child flew around her, crying, “Do not play with your naughty sprite!”
As he spoke he spread his wings before Kitty’s eyes. But the music was in Kitty’s heart, in her ears, it seemed to be in her hair, in her feet—it was everywhere.
“I shall play!” she cried impatiently, and she pushed away her guardian child.
She did not hear his sob, she did not notice that she had struck his wing and that some rosy feathers lay strewn on the ground. One little rosy feather had dropped on the bosom of her dress, and was caught there by the folds.
She did look round to see her guardian child, with drooping wing, growing paler and paler—vanishing away.
Deeper and deeper flew the bird into the wood, and sweeter grew its song. The naughty sprite gamboled after it, Kitty gamboled after the sprite. A star rose in the wood; it was like a blue diamond; it did not glide above the tree-tops, it danced about the ground, as if it were dancing to the song of the bluebird. The naughty sprite scampered up the tree and pelted Kitty with acorns; it now peeped at her from behind the trunks, now swung itself down and jumped into her arms all in a pant and tremble of play. And the bluebird wheeled and circled above Kitty’s head, and still it sang.
Skipping out of the wood came a hundred little creatures. They all had pointed ears, curly tails, and sparkling black eyes. They carried tiny lanterns that were blue and dazzling as the star. They were the merriest, most frolicsome of elves, but the friskiest and most fascinating of all was Kitty’s naughty self-sprite.
Louder sang the bird and louder; its song was now a dancing measure; it echoed through the forest as if gayety were the single spirit of the place. The blue star bounded and danced about the ground, here, there, everywhere, as if it had gone crazy with delight. The playful creatures danced and waved their lanterns, zigzag, up and down, crossing, circling in a merry maze. Kitty seized the fore paws of her naughty sprite, and dance, dance, dance they danced together. Livelier and livelier grew the bluebird’s song, and madder and madder grew the dance.
All at once—wh-ir-r—the bird’s melody had changed to something between a screech and a rattle. Kitty looked up. Twinkle, twinkle, round and round, like a flaming Catherine wheel, the bluebird’s wings quivered and shook; its tuft of golden feathers disappeared from its head; the gold collar faded from its neck; the light that shone in its blue wings was extinguished, and instead of the bird there hung on the branch where it had perched a big black slug.
