"Yes; shall I tell you one next time I come?"
"Oh do, please. So you will come again."
"Yes, if I can. Now I must go. I thought I heard distant thunder. We must fly so fast!—so fast! Good-by, good-by."
There was a long rumbling of thunder far off in the distance, and a cooler air in the hot, close room. Phil lay and dreamed, wondering how long it took the wind fairies to reach their home. Then the sweet spicy odors came to him again, and he lifted the languid flowers Miss Schuyler had brought him, and put them in his glass of water.
He dreamed of fair green fields and meadows, of silent lakes bordered with rushes, out of which sprang wild fowl slowly flapping their broad wings; of forests thick and dark, where on fallen trees the green moss had grown in velvet softness; of mountains lifting their purple tops into the fleecy clouds, and of long shady country roads winding in and out and about the hills; of lanes bordered with blackberry bushes and sumac, clematis and wild rose; of dewy nooks full of ferns; of the songs of birds and the chirp of insects; and it seemed to him that he must put some of all this beauty into some shape of his own creation—picture or poem, song or speech; and then came a sudden sharp twinge of pain, and the brightness faded, and the room was dark, and he was hungry, and only poor little Phil, sick and sad and weary and poor.
[to be continued.]
[PINAFORE RHYMES.]
