Lady Rum-Di-Doodle-Dum's Children

by Samuel Benjamin Dickson

IN WHICH WE BEGIN TO REALIZE HOW CONVENIENT
IT IS TO HAVE A PERSON LIKE FLIP ABOUT
THE PLACE, ESPECIALLY WHEN THERE IS NOTHING
MUCH TO DO; ALSO WE HEAR OF MR. MORIARITY
AND THE FAIRY WHO DID NOT HAVE A
RED CHIN BEARD AND A BALD HEAD

It was really quite surprising to learn how easily Flip could be depended upon. When it rained, Martha Mary would only need to say:

“Please, do you think we might have a story?” And Flip would lead the way to the fireplace and, before you half knew it, you were in the middle of a delightful story. Or Liza might tumble into the ash can and hurt her nose. She would cry dreadfully—and Flip would cure the damage with a story. John might go sailing on the lake Ocean and leave no one to be Captain of the land army. Away the army—Martha Mary, Walter, Edward Lee, and Liza—would go to Flip for sympathy—and Flip’s sympathy would be a story. Best of all were the stories he told in the Runaway Place where the poppies grew, lying on a small stack of hay, with his cap on his toe. There were so many told there that I hardly know which to tell to you first. Perhaps you would like the one about Mr. Moriarity.

“Of course you know,” said Flip, “that every child has a fairy just as there is a fairy for every flower. But what I am going to tell you is much more surprising than that. Every grown-up, no matter how big or important he may be, has just as nice a fairy in charge of his affairs. The fairies of the grown-ups do not show themselves nearly as often as flowers or children fairies. You see, grown-ups have not the time to think of such things. Furthermore, they are usually ashamed to recognize them, and of course the fairies are proud and will not go where they are not wanted. Would you believe that Father has a perfectly lovely fairy and there is another little, golden-winged one that belongs to Mother Dear? Well, there is! I have never seen them, but there must be. You see, Fairies are dreams, and everybody has dreams; even Mr. Moriarity, the green grocer.

“Mr. Moriarity’s fairy was the prettiest little fairy you have ever seen. Guess why? Because fairies do not take after their owners’ looks. If they did, Mr. Moriarity’s fairy would have to be a little red-faced creature with a red chin beard and watery blue eyes and a bald head. But fairies take after their owners’ dreams, and this was Mr. Moriarity’s dream: He wanted to be a great musician and play music that would make all the world glad. He had always loved music; in the olden days in Kerry County, when he was no larger than John, he used to creep out of his bed at night, tiptoe into the barn, and hide in the straw to listen to Tim, his big brother, sing about a girl called Kathleen Mavourneen, and Peggy Machree, and The Low Back Car to the cows and pigs. The cows would moo and the pigs would squeal their applause, and then Mr. Moriarity, who was called Andy in those days, would tiptoe back to his blankets and hide his head and sing Peggy Machree in a tiny voice. It was not at all good music, but it made him feel good. So he dreamed about the day that he should be a great musician and all the people would clap and the pigs squeal and the cows moo when he played. He wanted to play the violin because it sounds like the wind singing in the heather, but violins cost a great deal of money and lessons cost more, and Andy’s father was only a poor vegetable grower near the bogs. So it looked as though Andy would never be rich enough to have his dream. His fairy became unhappy and pale, because music fairies are the frailest, most delicate little things, and lovely melodies are sunshine for them.

“One day Andy was out in the heart of the moor listening to the wind in the purple heather and singing a song that he had made all himself. His fairy was sitting on a wild rosebush listening to the music. I know I have a perfectly awful voice, but this is the song he sang:

“‘The wild rose is my fairy love, my lady love, my pretty love.

The wild rose is my fairy love and I don’t care who knows it.

She dances for the moorland green, the Irish green, the hillside green,

And smiles and smiles and smiles upon the breeze that blows it.’