The fairy farm lay in a green vale, magically walled about with briery trees. Only at the midnight minute could the wall be passed, and Valentine had chanced to cross it at the sixth stroke of the bell.
And now Valentine found himself made welcome by the Husbandman and his lady, the Goodwife of the Hills. The Husbandman was old; his face was ruddy and his hair silvery white, and in a smock of blue with a white collar was he clad. His spouse was elderly too, and wore a gown of green with short old-fashioned sleeves, a white housekeeper’s-apron, and a cap with ribbons and frills.
I wish I had time to tell you of how the long summer passed at the farm of the fairies—of the brewing, the baking, and the churning; and of how the green elves came to cut the grain with silver scythes no longer than your arm; of how a very young giant, who had a pleasant smile and was as tall as a tree, came to pitch the hay into the barn; of how the orchard goblins came to gather the wonderful apples into baskets of silver and gold; and of the enchanted bear who wore yellow spectacles and turned the butter churn.
Presently the leaves, though green, began to rustle dryly on the trees, and Valentine began to long for his own again.
“You have been a faithful laborer,” said the old Husbandman of the Hills. “A reward is yours. What shall it be?”
“But I seek no reward,” said Valentine, “for you gave me shelter, when shelter I had none.”
“A brave answer,” said the old Husbandman with a smile. “But you have earned your wage, good friend. I’ll give you a wish. Be in no haste to use it. And guard it well!”
And now Valentine turned from the vale, passed the magic bound at midnight, and found himself once more in an old, familiar pathway of the wood.
The autumn had been a rainless one, and the water-miller was having forty fits.