"Someone ought to have a sympathetic strike with us," said the Brown Owl. "They always do that."
So a fairy was sent off to the Court of the Birds to request a sympathetic strike.
"Is that all?" said the Queen.
"You ought to talk more," said the Brown Owl. "They talk ever so much."
"Yes, but they can't help it, can they?" said the Queen kindly.
And so the strike began that evening.
None of the birds sang except one little blackleg Robin, who sang so hard in his efforts to make up for the rest that he was as hoarse as a crow the next morning. The blackleg fairies had a hard time too. They hadn't a minute to gossip with the flowers, as they usually did when they flew round with their acorn-cups of dew and thistledown sponges and washed their faces and folded up their petals and kissed them good-night.
"But what's the matter?" said the flowers sleepily.
"We're on strike," said one of the other fairies importantly "not for ourselves, but for posterity."
The Brown Owl had heard them say that.