"I am one of the guards of the fairy queen," was the reply; and suddenly the children saw the owner of the shrill little voice.
He was about as tall as your finger, dressed in green so exactly the color of the bush on which he was standing that no wonder they had not seen him sooner. A sword hung by his side, and looking closely they saw that it was a thorn. An acorn cup was his cap, and stuck in it was a tiny stiff feather some bird had dropped.
He was so cunning Iona longed to pick him up, but he looked so important and stern she felt sure that he would resent any attack on his dignity with that very sharp sword, and she thought she would better let him alone.
"That orange flower," went on the guard, "belongs to the fairy king and queen and you must not break it."
"Do they own all these wild-flowers?" asked Pierre. "I have picked a lot of them. We didn't know they belonged to anybody."
"No, their flower garden is not like that of mortals, all huddled together in one place," (the guard spoke quite scornfully). "Their flowers are scattered and that is why they require guards. Some are in the woods, some in the mountains, some in ravines, so now you understand, unless you are very dull mortal children."
"O, we understand," returned Iona eagerly. "Do you suppose we could see the fairy king and queen? We have wanted to all our lives."
The guard lifted his little shoulders and looked very proud. "It is possible," he said, "but not the easiest thing in the world."
"We wouldn't care if it was very hard indeed," said Pierre earnestly. "Is that thorn of yours instead of a wand?"
"I don't know what you mean by a thorn," returned the guard, and Iona noticed that he looked displeased.