"Isn't it just like a fairy village?" asked W. V.
On our way down our own street I pointed silently to the Forest. High over the billowy outline of the darkened tree-tops the church of the Oak-men was clear against the weather-gleam. W. V. nodded: "I expect all the Oak boys and girls have said, 'God bless this house from thatch to floor,' and gone to bed long ago." Since she heard the story of the Guardians of the Door, that has been her own favourite prayer at bed-time.
Thinking of the lighting of the lamps after she had been safely tucked in, I tried to make her a little song about it. I don't think she will like it as much as she liked the actual lighting of the lamps, but in years to come it may remind her of that delightful spectacle.
THE LAMPLIGHTER
From lamp to lamp, from street to street,
He speeds with faintlier echoing feet,
A pause—a glint of light!
And, lamp by lamp, with stars he marks his round.
So Love, when least of Love we dream,
Comes in the dusk with magic gleam.
A pause—a touch—so slight!
And life with clear celestial lights is crowned.