Round us hum and flit and flee
While we linger silently
In our noon-tide dream.”
Nothing but ice! Walls of it, peaks, spires, towers, grottoes, floors. Ice everywhere! It is of all manner of delicate hues—pale green and blue; and where the edges catch the sun it shines even brighter than the glitter of a thousand clustering [[265]]diamonds. This is Silverhaze, the border of Fairyland. The King of Silverhaze stood at the ice-bound portal of his kingdom, when he observed the approach of a very old man. The gait of the mortal wayfarer was slow and feeble, and he often paused to rest ere he reached the gates where stood the monarch.
“Who lives here, Spirit?” he asked of the Frost King.
“I,” responded the tall, bearded form, in a sweet voice which sounded like a song heard a long way off.
“Where is Fairyland, and how am I to get there?” inquired the old gentleman in a faint tone.
“You are standing on the boundary line of the region you seek,” answered the King; “this is the wall encircling the land of the Australian Elves, O mortal!”
“What a thick rampart of ice!” exclaimed the old man, curiously inspecting the great white barrier.
“True,” answered the Frost King. “This wall is made from the dew and rain of Earth that are not delicate enough to moisten the tender grass of Elfland. I catch the mists as they wreathe themselves upward, and divide them; that which [[266]]has touched and been tainted with the under world I build up into these icy walls; that which is pure as the morning cloud floats on into the country where you are going.”