path: root/76340-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76340 ***


                          Transcriber’s Notes

 ● A stanza break was inserted at the start of page 25 before "But ere
   the morning has well begun"
 ● Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
 ● Typographical errors were silently corrected.
 ● Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when
   a predominant form was found in this book.
 ● Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).




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                            THE FAIRY FLUTE




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                         BY THE SAME AUTHOR

                           FAIRIES AND CHIMNEYS
                           THE FAIRY GREEN




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                            THE FAIRY FLUTE




                                   BY

                              ROSE FYLEMAN
                    AUTHOR OF “FAIRIES AND CHIMNEYS”




                             SECOND EDITION




                           METHUEN & CO. LTD.
                          36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
                                 LONDON




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                  _First Published_ _October 6th 1921_
                  _Second Edition_        _1922_




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                                TO _ALL_

                         MY NEPHEWS AND NIECES




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                                CONTENTS

                                                   PAGE
                CONSOLATION                           9
                IF YOU MEET A FAIRY                  11
                FAIRY LORE                           13
                EVERY FAIRY HAS A STAR               15
                THE FAIRY LOVER                      17
                THE FAIRY TAILOR                     19
                AT DAWN                              22
                THE GREEN LOCH                       24
                THE SKYLARK                          26
                IN BOND STREET                       28
                TIMOTHY                              29
                FAIRY LULLABY FOR A MORTAL           31
                THE CANARY                           33
                RAINY MORNING                        35
                THIS IS THE WAY THE FAIRIES SING     37
                THE FAIRY BALL                       39
                USEFUL HINTS                         40
                THE FAIRY FLUTE                      41
                THE APPLE-TREE                       43
                A STRANGE PAIR                       44
                THE WILLOW PRINCESSES                46
                A VISITOR                            47
                THE LITTLE PRINCE                    48
                TEMPER                               49
                BEST                                 51
                WHAT I SHALL BE                      52
                SOMETIMES                            53
                PREPARE!                             55
                A VOYAGE                             56
                A COMPLAINT                          58
                THE FAIRIES GIVE THANKS              60




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                            THE FAIRY FLUTE




                              CONSOLATION


       You may be very ugly and freckledy and small
       And have a little stubby nose that’s not a nose at all;
       You may be bad at spelling and you may be worse at sums,
       You may have stupid fingers that your Nanna says are thumbs,
       And lots of things you look for you may never, never find,
       But if you love the fairies—you don’t mind.

       You may be rather frightened when you read of wolves and bears
       Or when you pass the cupboard-place beneath the attic stairs;
       You may not always like it when thunder makes a noise
       That seems so much, much bigger than little girls and boys;
       You may feel rather lonely when you waken in the night,
       But if the fairies love you—_it’s all right_.




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                          IF YOU MEET A FAIRY


                     If you meet a fairy
                     Don’t run away;
                     She won’t want to hurt you,
                     She’ll only want to play.

                     Show her round the garden,
                     Round the house too,
                     She’ll want to see the kitchen
                     (I know they always do).

                     Find a tiny present
                     To give her when she goes,
                     They love silver paper
                     And little ribbon bows.

                     I knew a little girl once
                     Who saw twenty-three
                     Playing in the orchard
                     As jolly as could be.

                     They asked her to dance with them
                     To make a twenty-four;
                     She ran to the nursery
                     And hid behind the door.

                     Hid behind the nursery door—
                     (What a thing to do!)
                     She grew up very solemn
                     And rather ugly too.

                     If you meet a fairy
                     Remember what I say,
                     Talk to her nicely
                     And don’t run away.




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                               FAIRY LORE


        Fairies learn to dance before they learn to walk;
        Fairies learn to sing before they learn to talk;
        Fairies learn their counting from the cuckoo’s call;
            They do not learn Geography at all.

        Fairies go a-riding with witches on their brooms
        And steal away the rainbows to brighten up their rooms;
        Fairies like a sky-dance better than a feast;
            They have a birthday once a week at least.

        Fairies think the rain as pretty as the sun;
        Fairies think that trespass-boards are only made for fun;
        Fairies think that peppermint’s the nicest thing they know;
            I _always_ take a packet when I go.




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                         EVERY FAIRY HAS A STAR


                Every fairy has a star
                Where all her tiny treasures are,
                And there her faithful gnome,
                As soon as she goes out at night
                Against the window sets a light
                To guide his lady home.

                And at the open door he stands
                And waves his little twinkling hands
                As down to earth she goes;
                Then sits and waits the long night through,
                And sometimes sings a song or two
                And sometimes has a doze.

                But at the earliest crow of cock
                Back to the sky the fairies flock,
                And at their doors they stand and knock
                (The air is keen and chill)—
                They do not wait to see the sun;
                Straight to their little beds they run;
                The stars are darkened one by one
                And all the sky is still.




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                            THE FAIRY LOVER


            You walk in your orchard, you sit in your bower
            Mid plentiful treasure of fruit and of flower;
            But you shall have pleasaunces brighter than these,
            With magical blossoms and magical trees.

            Your train is of damask, rich fold upon fold,
            Your gown is of crimson, your shoes are of gold;
            But a mantle of rainbows shall wrap you about,
            Besprinkled with star-dust within and without.

            Your ladies-in-waiting are gracious and fair
            And a little page stands by the side of your chair;
            But an army of goblins shall do your behest
            And fly at your bidding to East and to West.

            You shall sit on a cushion of velvety moss,
            Embroidered with sunbeams across and across,
            And a grasshopper chorus shall make you good cheer
            Or charm you with delicate lullabies, dear.

            I will tap at your window some moon-silvered night,
            And when you lean down through the jessamine white
            My fairy-swift wings I shall softly unfurl
            And bear you away to my palace of pearl.




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                            THE FAIRY TAILOR


        Sitting on the flower-bed beneath the hollyhocks
        I spied the tiny tailor who makes the fairies’ frocks;
        There he sat a-stitching all the afternoon
        And sang a little ditty to a quaint wee tune:
          “Grey for the goblins, blue for the elves,
          Brown for the little gnomes that live by themselves,
          White for the pixies that dance upon the green—
          But where shall I find me a robe for the Queen?”

        All about the garden his little men he sent,
        Up and down and in and out unceasingly they went.
        Here they stole a blossom, there they pulled a leaf,
        And bound them up with gossamer into a glowing sheaf.
          Petals of the pansy for little velvet shoon,
          Silk of the poppy for a dance beneath the moon,
          Lawn of the jessamine, damask of the rose,
          To make their pretty kirtles and airy furbelows.

        Never roving pirates back from Southern seas
        Brought a store of treasures home beautiful as these.
        They heaped them all about him in a sweet gay pile,
        But still he kept a-stitching and a-singing all the while:
          “Grey for the goblins, blue for the elves,
          Brown for the little gnomes that live by themselves,
          White for the pixies that dance on the green,
          But who shall make a royal gown to deck the Fairy Queen?”




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                                AT DAWN


                      Though the fairies meet by night
                        In the moonlit spaces,
                      Often in the morning light
                        You will see their traces;
                      If you rise at early dawn
                        When the birds are waking,
                      You may find upon the lawn
                        Tents of fairy making.

                      In the meadows here and there,
                        Where the soft wind passes,
                      Elfin lines of gossamer
                        Stretch between the grasses;
                      And if you will look about
                        Soon you will discover
                      Fairy washing hanging out
                        All among the clover.

                      In the quiet woods you might,
                        If your ways be wary,
                      Even hope to get a sight
                        Of a little fairy
                      On a lily-leaf, perchance,
                        Broad and smooth and level,
                      Practising her tiny dance
                        For the evening revel.




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                             THE GREEN LOCH


              Far in the hills the Green Loch lies,
              Its constant emerald mocks at the skies;
              Though they be garmented grey or blue
              Never the Green Loch changes hue;
              For at earliest dawn, when the winds are still,
              Over the brow of the western hill
              The fairies come in a happy throng
              With elfin laughter and elfin song
              Trooping down to the water-side
              To bathe in its cool enchanted tide.
              Over and under they flash about,
              They race with the shy little silver trout,
              They twist and tumble and dart and dive
              Till all the lake is alight and alive,
              And glows with a tremulous sparkling sheen
              Like the jewelled robe of an Eastern queen.

              But ere the morning has well begun
              They all come leaping forth to the sun.
              They hang for a shimmering moment there
              Shaking their curls in the warm bright air,
              While the water drops from their delicate wings
              And dapples the lake with quivering rings,
              Then rise like thistledown over the trees
              And float away on the heather-sweet breeze.

              They leave not a sign, they leave not a trace,
              A slumberous calm lies over the place;
              Only the green, green waters bide
              To tell the secret they never can hide.




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                              THE SKYLARK


    Of all the birds the fairies love the skylark much the best;
    They come with little fairy gifts to seek his hidden nest.
    They praise his tiny slender feet and silken suit of brown,
    And with their gentle hands they smooth his feathers softly down.

    They cluster round with glowing cheeks and bright expectant eyes,
    Waiting the moment that shall bring the freedom of the skies;
    Waiting the double-sweet delight that only he can give—
    (Oh, kings might surely spurn their crowns to live as fairies live).

    To ride upon a skylark’s back between his happy wings,
    To float upon the edge of heaven and listen while he sings—
    The dreams of mortals scarce can touch so perfected a bliss,
    And even fairies could not know a greater joy than this.




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                             IN BOND STREET


                 Upon her little velvet hat
                   A silken tassel hung,
                 And to the very end of that
                   A tiny fairy clung.

                 Among her curls he bobbed about
                   And played at hide-and-seek
                 With every dimple that came out
                   Upon her chin or cheek.

                 This is a common sight perchance
                   For Londoners to see?
                 It seemed to draw no curious glance
                   From anyone but me.

                 Along the street I watched her go
                   Serenely unaware;
                 And still he tumbled to and fro
                 (It seemed so strange she should not know)
                   Among her golden hair.




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                                TIMOTHY


         My cat Timothy who has such lovely eyes
         Is really not a cat at all; it’s only a disguise.
         A witch cast a spell on him a long time since
         And changed him to a pussy-cat; but once he was a Prince.

         On warm clear nights when a big moon is out
         He steps into the garden and never turns about,
         But walks down the path with his quiet proud air—
         He knows that the fairies are waiting out there.

         The fairies go a-dancing, a-dancing in a ring,
         He sits in the middle with a crown like a king,
         High on a throne in the middle of the grass,
         And the fairies stop capering to curtsey as they pass.

         Some day, some day when the spell is done
         He will be a Prince again. _Won’t_ that be fun?
         He will come to seek me and kiss my lily hand
         And take me on his foaming steed to reign in fairyland.




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                       FAIRY LULLABY FOR A MORTAL


              Sleep, oh sleep, for the night is still;
              The friendly moon peers over the hill;
              Cradled soft on the bosom of night
              Smiling she scatters her wistful light
              Where fairy lovers their trystings keep;
              But the children of men must sleep, must sleep.

              Sleep, oh sleep, for your days are long;
              The stars shall sing you a slumber-song
              Clear and bright as their silver flames,
              All made up of their own sweet names,
              Falling softly from star to star—
              Mera, Murphid and Aladfar.

              Sleep, oh sleep; with never a sound
              We will circle mazily round and around;
              We will wrap you close in a web of dreams
              Shot with delicate fairy gleams;
              With our soft, soft wings we will brush away
              The sorrowful darkness that comes with the day.

              Sleep, oh sleep, for the night grows late;
              Over the hill our comrades wait.
              How can we go when the gifts we brought,
              For all our loving, have served you nought?
              How can we leave you and know you weep?
              Will you not hush you, and smile, and sleep?




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                               THE CANARY


                   He used to be a fairy once,
                     A little singing fairy;
                   He would not work, he would not play,
                   He only sat and sang all day—
                     So now he’s a canary.

                   They sent him out of fairyland,
                     They sent him here to me
                   The day that I was six years old;
                   His little house of shining gold
                     Hangs in the nursery.

                   He’s taught me lots of lovely things
                     I never should have guessed;
                   He’s told me what they say and do
                   (They all have wings—it’s really true)
                     And how the Queen is dressed.

                   He flits about the house at night
                     A little lonely fairy;
                   But nobody is there to see,
                   And no one knows—excepting me—
                     He’s not a real canary.




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                             RAINY MORNING


                 As I was walking in the rain
                 I met a fairy down a lane.
                 We walked along the road together,
                 I soon forgot about the weather.
                 He told me lots of lovely things:
                 The story that the robin sings,
                 And where the rabbits go to school,
                 And how to know a fairy pool,
                 And what to say and what to do
                 If bogles ever bother you.

                 The flowers peeped from hedgy places
                 And shook the raindrops from their faces,
                 And furry creatures all the way
                 Came popping out and said “Good-day.”
                 But when we reached the little bend,
                 Just where the village houses end,
                 He seemed to slip into the ground,
                 And when I looked about I found
                 The rain was suddenly all over
                 And the sun shining on the clover.




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                    THIS IS THE WAY THE FAIRIES SING


             This is the way the fairies sing:
             They all stand round in a shining ring
             On quiet nights when the moon is high,
             And lift their faces up to the sky.
             They read the music out of the stars,
             There aren’t any notes and there aren’t any bars.
             And sweet their song as the clover flower,
             And soft it is as a summer shower,
             And gay as leaves that the June airs shake,
             And sad as the mist on an autumn lake.
             None shall light on a lovelier thing
             Than the magical song that the fairies sing.

             This is the way the fairies dance:
             They point their toes and they leap and prance
             Over and under and round and round,
             Now in the air and now on the ground,
             In a shimmering, glimmering moon-lit maze
             To a wonderful music that nobody plays.
             And swift their dance as the coming of spring,
             And light as the touch of a butterfly’s wing,
             And strange as the gleams in a stormy sky
             And changing-bright as the peacock’s dye.
             Oh, lucky are you if you get the chance
             To learn the way that the fairies dance.




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                             THE FAIRY BALL


                “I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;
                What shall I wear, for I must look right?”
                “Search in the fields for a lady-smock;
                Where could you find you a prettier frock?”

                “I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;
                What shall I do for my jewels bright?”
                “Trouble you not for a brooch or a ring,
                A daisy-chain is the properest thing.”

                “I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;
                What shall I do if I shake with fright?”
                “When you are there you will understand
                That no one is frightened in Fairyland.”




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                              USEFUL HINTS


                   Fairy flannel is the skin of peaches,
                   Fairy brushes are the nuts of beeches,
                   Velvet bulrushes are fairy pillows,
                   Fairy muffs are made of pussy-willows.




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                            THE FAIRY FLUTE


                      My brother has a little flute
                      Of gold and ivory,
                      He found it on a summer night
                      Within a hollow tree.
                      He plays it every morning
                      And every afternoon,
                      And all the little singing-birds
                      Listen to the tune.
                      He plays it in the meadows,
                      And everywhere he walks
                      The flowers start a-nodding
                      And dancing on their stalks.
                      He plays it in the village,
                      And all along the street
                      The people stop to listen,
                      The music is so sweet.
                      And none but he can play it
                      And none can understand,
                      Because it is a fairy flute
                      And comes from Fairyland.




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                             THE APPLE-TREE


                     I stood beneath the apple-tree,
                     The apples were so good to see;
                     Very high above my head
                     I saw them shining round and red.

                     A robin sang a tiny song,
                     And after I had waited long
                     A fairy in the apple-tree
                     Threw an apple down to me.




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                             A STRANGE PAIR


             The witch, the witch that lives in the wood
             Is not very pretty and not very good;
             Her face is brown and her eyes are black,
             A fierce old pussy-cat sits on her back
             With a sharp thin tail sticking up like a spire,
             While her mistress crouches over the fire,
             Be the day cold or be the day hot,
             Watching her strange little bubbling pot.

             The gobliny dwarf that lives on the hill
             He lies in the heather so still, so still.
             But on big dark nights when there isn’t a moon
             He puts on his cloak and his dancing shoon
             And runs along like a soft shy mouse
             Till he comes to the door of the witch’s house.
             “Ho!” he cries, “it is junketing weather”;
             And off they go on the spree together.

             Off they go on the tail of the wind:
             The great black pussy-cat sails behind.
             Haven’t you heard them banging about?
             Haven’t you heard them whistle and shout?
             Haven’t you seen them now and again
             Peering in at the window-pane?
             Oh, but I tell you it’s better to hide
             When the witch and the goblin are out for a ride.




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                         THE WILLOW PRINCESSES


            The tall princesses in the willow tree
            They move their lazy, lovely heads about,
            They wave their arms, their hair goes streaming out,
            Their rustling dresses shimmer like the sea.

            But presently they cease to sway and swing
            And stand quite still, and whisper gentle words,
            Quietly calling to the little birds
            To perch upon their pretty hands and sing.




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                               A VISITOR


    I heard a little tiny noise behind the cupboard door
    And something soft and small and quick flashed right across the
       floor.
    The day had very nearly gone and I could hardly see;
    I do so wish that it would come again to visit me;
    The whole day long I’ve looked and looked and looked about the
       house,
    _I_ think it was a fairy. _Nurse_ thinks it was a mouse.




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                           THE LITTLE PRINCE


           My mother is a queen and my father is a king
           And I have a garden with pretty birds that sing,
           Where pansies and marigolds and hollyhocks grow
           And four little apple-trees planted in a row.

           My father is a king and my mother is a queen
           And I have a little page dressed all in green,
           A treasure-mine in Barbary, an orange-grove in Spain,
           And a little brown monkey on a long gold chain.




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                                 TEMPER


                “Blow out the light,” they said, they said
                  (She’d got to the very last page);
                “Blow out the light,” they said, they said,
                “It’s dreadfully wicked to read in bed”;
                Her eyes grew black and her face grew red
                  And she blew in a terrible rage.

                She put out the moon, she did, she did,
                  So frightfully hard she blew,
                She put out the moon, she did, she did;
                Over the sky the darkness slid,
                The stars all scuttled away and hid—
                  (A very wise thing to do).

                But please don’t whisper the tale about,
                  She’d get into trouble, she would;
                Please don’t whisper the tale about,
                If anyone else should ever find out
                She’d get into trouble without a doubt,
                  And now she’s _ever_ so good.




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                                  BEST


                  I like to wear my party frock
                  That Auntie bought in town,
                  My patent shoes with shiny toes,
                  My Sunday hat with little bows,
                  And ribbons hanging down.
                  I like to hear the people say:
                  “How pretty Nancy looks to-day!”

                  But Daddy shakes his head and says:
                  “You’ll make her very vain.”
                  And Grannie says: “She should be dressed
                  In everything that’s of the best
                  But rather neat and plain.”
                  And Mother says: “My goodness me!
                  Who _can_ this lovely lady be?”




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                            WHAT I SHALL BE


                      I shall be a lady
                      As pretty as you please,
                      And I shall have a garden
                      With lots of flowers and trees,
                      A pretty little kitchen
                      With rows of shining pots,
                      A hothouse full of peaches
                      And a nursery full of cots.




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                               SOMETIMES


      Some days are fairy days. The minute that you wake
      You have a magic feeling that you never could mistake;
      You may not see the fairies, but you know that they’re about,
      And any single minute they might all come popping out;
      You want to laugh, you want to sing, you want to dance and run,
      Everything is different, everything is fun;
      The sky is full of fairy clouds, the streets are fairy ways—
      _Anything_ might happen on truly fairy days.

      Some nights are fairy nights. Before you go to bed
      You hear their darling music go chiming in your head;
      You look into the garden, and through the misty grey
      You see the trees all waiting in a breathless kind of way.
      All the stars are smiling; they know that very soon
      The fairies will come singing from the land behind the moon.
      If only you could keep awake when Nurse puts out the light...
      _Anything_ might happen on a truly fairy night.




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                                PREPARE!


                     Bunny, bunny, smooth your fur,
                       Wash your little face;
                     Dormouse, wake you up and stir
                       Lest you lose your place.
                     Hasten, squirrel, don’t be shy—
                     The Queen is coming by.

                     Linnets, wrens, be ready, please,
                       With your sweetest notes,
                     Perch among the waiting trees,
                       Tune your tiny throats.
                     Skylark, won’t you leave the sky?
                     The Queen is coming by.

                     Goblins, stop your naughty tricks,
                       Hold yourselves in wait;
                     Witches, raise your besom sticks
                       For an arch of state.
                     Quickly, fairies, hither fly—
                     The Queen is coming by.




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                                A VOYAGE


                  They took me out a-sailing—
                  The boat was made of glass;
                  We sailed upon the little clouds,
                  The stars came out in shining crowds
                  So thick we scarce could pass.
                  But feather-light through all the night
                  About the sky we sped;
                  There were no oars with which to row,
                  There was no tiniest wind to blow
                  Though all the sails were spread.

                  They took me out a-sailing—
                  We anchored by the moon;
                  The golden door was open wide,
                  We saw a garden-ground inside
                  Where it was light as noon.
                  And fairy folk looked out and spoke:
                  “Come in, come in and play!”
                  We climbed a little silver stair—
                  It was so beautiful in there
                  I wished that I might stay.

                  They took me out a-sailing—
                  Oh, strange the tales I heard
                  Of charmed adventures in the skies
                  Beyond the gaze of human eyes,
                  Beyond the flight of bird.
                  The stars went out, I looked about,
                  I saw the dewdrops gleam
                  Among the cobwebs on the lawn
                  As we came home at break of dawn...
                  It was not all a dream.




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                              A COMPLAINT


                 You’ve stolen all our mushrooms!
                 When friends come in to tea
                 In Fairyland it is the rule
                 To offer them a satin stool;
                 The grass is often very wet
                 And furniture is hard to get,
                 As you must all agree.

                 You’ve stolen all our mushrooms
                 And left not one behind.
                 If people came by night and day
                 And took your prettiest chairs away
                 And made them all into a stew
                 Without so much as thanking you,
                 Now would you call it kind?

                 You’ve stolen all our mushrooms,
                 And, if you don’t take care,
                 We’ll go about the fields at night
                 And paint the toadstools brown and white,
                 And you’ll be punished for your greed
                 By being very ill indeed—
                 So you had best beware.




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                        THE FAIRIES GIVE THANKS


            To all kind folk who make delightful gardens
                    Where we may live,
            Enjoying days and nights of busy leisure
            Amid devices fashioned for our pleasure,
                    Our thanks we give.

            For dancing-lawns and gravelled jousting-places,
                    For guardian trees,
            For ferny thickets strewn with moss-grown mountains
            And lily-pools and waterfalls and fountains—
                    For all of these.

            Charged are we also by our little comrades
                    The gentle birds,
            That we their messages of thanks should bring you,
            Since they from grateful hearts can only sing you
                    Songs without words.




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           The author’s best thanks are due to the Editor and
           Proprietors of _Punch_, through whose courtesy she
           is able to include in this collection a number of
           verses which have already appeared in that paper.




              PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH

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*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76340 ***