Land of work, and land of snow;
Land of life, whose rivers flow
On, and on, and stay not.
“Fain would I thy small limbs fold,
While the weary hours are told,
Little babe in cradle cold.
Some there are that may not.”
“You are not exactly fairies, I suppose?” said Jack. “If you were, you could go to our country when you pleased.”
“No,” said the woman; “we are not exactly fairies; but we shall be more like them when our punishment is over.”
“I am sorry you are punished,” answered Jack, “for you seem very nice, kind people.”