[ CHAPTER VI]
PUCK
Maya, drowsy with the noonday heat, flew leisurely past the glare on the bushes in the garden, into the cool, broad-leaved shelter of a great chestnut-tree.
On the trodden sward in the shade under the tree stood chairs and tables, evidently for an out-door meal. A short distance away gleamed the red-tiled roof of a peasant’s cottage, with thin blue columns of smoke curling up from the chimneys.
Now at last, thought Maya, she was bound to see a human being. Had she not reached the very heart of his realm? The tree must be his property, and the curious wooden contrivances in the shade below must belong to his hive.
Something buzzed; a fly alighted on the leaf beside her. It ran up and down the green veining in little jerks. You couldn’t see its legs move, and it seemed to be sliding about excitedly. Then it flew from one finger of the broad leaf to another, but so quickly and unexpectedly that you might have thought it hadn’t flown but hopped. Evidently it was looking for the most comfortable place on the leaf. Every now and then, in the suddennest way, it would swing itself up in the air a short space and buzz vehemently, as though something dreadfully untoward had occurred, or as though it were animated by some tremendous purpose. Then it would drop back to the leaf, as if nothing had happened, and resume its jerky racing up and down. Lastly, it would sit quite still, like a rigid image.
Maya watched its antics in the sunshine, then approached it and said politely:
“How do you do? Welcome to my leaf. You are a fly, are you not?”
“What else do you take me for?” said the little one. “My name is Puck. I am very busy. Do you want to drive me away?”
“Why, not at all. I am glad to make your acquaintance.”