And in among the faded fern, the little dew was gray
As the gray tears of grief—’
tears and dew, sir, you see.”
“Go on with your chune,” says the leprechaun.
“ ‘Maybe when I’m older and it’s short from sun to sun,
Days I’ll dream of lying there with all the stars above,
While in among the sorrel bloom . . .”
“And it ends there,” said the old man, helpless, “which it shouldn’t, and it is in my mind that there is a fine bright word for it to end on, a word I’ve forgotten, and I can’t finish it.”
“I’m not here for long, but I’ll come back before I go and finish your chune for you,” and the leprechaun nodded very friendly and went out. What he did in the night Great-Aunt Hawthorne didn’t know. But while Denis was finishing breakfast in the morning, he came into the room with the sandy cat.
“Holy Saints!” said Denis, and sat with a spoon full of strawberry jam held half way to his mouth, and his mouth open.