Fairies I Have Met

by Mrs. Rodolph Stawell

"The sooner I get out of this the better," he said to himself, skipping away from the gardener's big fingers. Then he spread his wings and flew up and away, over the wall and over the garden and on and on. He went on flying, flying, till all his friends were left far behind and he came to strange streets such as he had never seen before. Still he went on flying, flying. You see he was extremely anxious to be very far away from the gardener with the big fingers and the terrible, sharp prongs.

At last he became dreadfully tired. It would be impossible, he felt, to go on flying much longer, so he looked about him for shelter. He saw an open window, and beyond it a large cool room. Here was shelter at all events, so he flew straight in. There were a number of tables and chairs in the room, and at each table a man sat writing; but Flitterwing was too much frightened to see anything. He only wanted to find a place where he could hide and rest. A large ink-pot stood on a table, and just inside the ink-pot was a little ledge where a fairy might rest comfortably. Flitterwing lost no time; he darted into the ink-pot and sat down on the ledge. In a few moments he folded his tired wings about him and fell fast asleep.

Now, the room into which Flitterwing had flown was a place where a great deal of business was done. Every day a number of men sat there adding up figures and writing letters about dull things that neither you nor I could understand. If you have done many sums, you will agree with me that no sensible man could really like spending all his time in adding up pounds, shillings, and pence. Very few of the men in this big room really liked it. Some of them wanted to be playing cricket or golf, some would rather have been reading books or listening to beautiful music; and every one of them was longing to be in the country among the flowers and the fairies. And there was one among them—a little man with a pale face and a thin coat—who wished above all things to be making poetry. There were two good reasons against his doing this. In the first place, he was obliged to earn money, and this is more easily done by adding up figures than by making poetry; and in the second place, he did not in the least know how poetry ought to be made.

On the sunny morning when Flitterwing took refuge in the ink-pot the Man in the Thin Coat was very busy. There were rows and rows of figures waiting to be added up, so that there seemed to be no end to them. A large sheet of paper was before him on which he was doing these sums, and the figures were arranged in terribly long columns—and no doubt you know how unpleasant that is. Suddenly something glittered in the air for a moment and then disappeared. It was so bright that it caught his eye and made him lose his place. He thought it was some beautiful kind of insect with the sunshine caught in its wings.

"It was like a messenger from the summer!" he said to himself.

Then he dipped his pen in the ink-pot and went back to his sums.

He had been working busily for some time when he noticed something very curious. His pen was not writing figures at all! He was thinking about figures, and he wished to put figures on the paper, so it was a very strange thing that his pen was writing words all the time. The words were arranged in short lines with a capital letter at the beginning of each line.

"Dear me, how annoying!" he said to himself. "What can I have been thinking of? This will never do."

So he took a fresh sheet and began again.

He imagined that he was copying all the figures on to the clean sheet of paper, for that was what he intended to do. He wrote the figures very quickly, as he thought, because he wanted to make up for lost time. Then he glanced at what he had written—and threw down his pen angrily.