"Of course not," said Fairyfoot, politely.
"The difficulty is," said the little man, "that some fairies don't graduate. They learn to turn people into things, but they don't learn how to unturn them; and then, when they get mad in their families—you know how it is about getting mad in families—there is confusion. Yes, seriously, confusion arises. It arises. That was the way with my great-aunt's grandmother. She was not a cultivated old person, and she did not know how to unturn people, and now you see the result. Quite accidentally I trod on her favorite corn; she got mad and changed me into a robin, and regretted it ever afterward. I could only become myself again by a kind-hearted person's saving me from a great danger. You are that person. Give me your hand."
Fairyfoot held out his hand. The little man looked at it.
"On second thought," he said, "I can't shake it—it's too large. I'll sit on it, and talk to you."
With these words, he hopped upon Fairyfoot's hand, and sat down, smiling and clasping his own hands about his tiny knees.
"I declare, it's delightful not to be a robin," he said. "Had to go about picking up worms, you know. Disgusting business. I always did hate worms. I never ate them myself—I drew the line there; but I had to get them for my family."
Suddenly he began to giggle, and to hug his knees up tight.
"Do you wish to know what I'm laughing at?" he asked Fairyfoot.
"Yes," Fairyfoot answered.
The little man giggled more than ever.