A long time ago—so long that it was ages before my grandfather was a little boy, and long before his grandmother was a little girl—there was, not far from fairyland, a beautiful lake, the waters of which were so clear that as they sparkled in the sunlight they glistened and gleamed like silver: and so it was called the Silver Lake. Beautiful white swans sailed majestically on its surface, and thousands of gold fishes swam in its clear waters.
On one part of the lake the most lovely water-lilies opened up their white flowers, looking, as some people said, like tiny boats; but one of the little girls I am going to tell you about thought they looked like a set of green saucers and white cups, and used to call them the swans' best tea-things. Now, in the midst of this Silver Lake stood the beautiful island called Child's Island. Such a lovely little island as it was had never been seen before, and I verily believe has never been seen since.
Black clouds never came near it, for there the sky was blue and cloudless always, and I am told that at night more stars might be seen from that pretty isle than from any other part of the world; but whether that is true or not I cannot tell. But I do know that its shores sloped green down to the water's edge, that the brightest and sweetest flowers bordered every pathway, that the roses were without thorns, and there was not a single nettle in the whole island. I know, also, that the grass was the greenest, the trees the shadiest, the flowers the brightest, and the fruit the ripest to be found anywhere. As to the animals, there were none but the gentlest kind. Little white mice went peeping about with their wee pink eyes, pretty tame squirrels bounded from tree to tree, and a herd of graceful fawns fed and played in the meadows. Birds of the gayest plumage and sweetest song were there; pretty poll-parrots hopped among the trees, crying, "What's o'clock? What's o'clock?" In short, it was the brightest, merriest, sunniest spot in the world, and I can say no more in its praise than that. All day long the sun shone gently down upon the little isle, and the wind never raised its voice above a whisper.
But, besides birds and butterflies, fawns, and flowers, there was something else in this pretty isle. Now, what do you guess that something was? Why, a beautiful fairy palace.
I call it a fairy palace, not because fairies lived there, for they did not, but because it was the work of fairy hands, and was more beautiful than any other palace in the world. It stood in the midst of a lovely garden, but no wall or railing shut it in from the rest of the island; and you and I, had we been there, might have walked across the green lawn, and plucked some of the gay flowers, and gone up the marble steps, without anyone saying, "Stop! You must not go there." Round about the palace, in groups of twos and threes, were several little houses, all very beautiful and all exactly alike.
Now, I daresay you will think that this was a very pretty place, at the same time, very strange; yet the strangest and, to me, the most charming thing of all was that there were none but children in this little island. They were all quite young, the eldest amongst them were not twelve years old; they were the king and the queen, who, of course, lived in the beautiful palace. And thus, because only children dwelt there, it was called Child Island.
Well, these little folks had nothing to do but to play; and a rare time they had of it, as you shall hear; but perhaps you would first like to know how it happened that they were alone in this island without any grown people to take care of them. Then listen, and I will tell you.