Two Old Ladies, Two Foolish Fairies, and a Tom Cat
Author: Margaret Hamer Andrewes
Date: 1896-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's literature; Fantasy; Fairy Tales
Description: Lord Pussee Cattums, formerly known as Puss-in-Boots, incites the fairies (who want more magical power) to rebel against their Queen. In consequence, two of the young fairies, Tuppy and Tue, are to be sent into the world with all the fairy gifts (the seven-league boots, the glass slippers, the spinning wheel, and all the rest) to find out if the gifts are useless and if the fairy power over mortals is lost. ~ ~ ~ But, oh my! How things have changed in the mortal world!
Publisher: MobileRead
Rights: Public domain where copyright is "Life+70" or less, and in the USA.

Two Old Ladies,
Two Foolish Fairies,
and a Tom Cat

The Surprising Adventures
of Tuppy and Tue

~

BY
MAGGIE BROWNE
(Margaret Hamer Andrewes)

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ARTHUR RACKHAM

MobileRead Edition
2019

About this eBook

TWO OLD LADIES,
TWO FOOLISH FAIRIES,
AND A TOM CAT

BY
Maggie Browne

PSEUDONYM OF
MARGARET HAMER ANDREWES
(? – ?)

ILLUSTRATED BY
Arthur Rackham
(1867–1939)

Lord Pussee Cattums, formerly known as Puss-in-Boots, incites the fairies (who want more magical power) to rebel against their Queen. In consequence, two of the young fairies, Tuppy and Tue, are to be sent into the world with all the fairy gifts (the seven-league boots, the glass slippers, the spinning wheel, and all the rest) to find out if the gifts are useless and if the fairy power over mortals is lost.

But, oh my! How things have changed in the mortal world!

Twenty-four illustrations by Arthur Rackham, from early in his career, are featured in this book (cited by some as “the first real Rackham”).

Maggie Browne (pseudonym of Margaret Hamer Andrewes), active from 1884 to 1900, was the author of Two Old Ladies, Two Foolish Fairies, and a Tom Cat; The Book of Betty Barber; Wanted–a King; Pleasant Work for Busy Fingers; Plays for Little Folks; and others. No biographical data could be found for this writer.

This ebook was created by ECM for MobileRead.com, September 2019, and may be freely distributed for non-commercial purposes.

This book was first published in 1897.

Click here for editing notes.

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Contents

—

TWO OLD LADIES, TWO FOOLISH FAIRIES, AND A TOM CAT

… About This eBook

… List of Illustrations

THE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF TUPPY AND TUE:

1 … Puss Finds His Boots and Makes Mischief
2 … The Wizard of the North’s Visit
3 … “Dear, Darling Mamma”
4 … Fairy Flowers
5 … Cinderella’s Slippers
6 … What Became of the Slippers
7 … A Mysterious Voice and a Magic Rhyme
8 … The Spirit of Mischief
9 … The Wonderful Cave
10 … Bobelink
11 … The Capture of the Boots
12 … The Return of the Fairies

Illustrations

—

… Cover
… Original cover
Puss jumped lightly onto the stump of a tree
She rose from her throne
“They are all fairy godmothers”
The gift fairies
She raised her stick in the air
“My stepmother”
The farmer stooped again

“If you will wear these boots—”
[COLOR]

“Hullo!” he shouted…

…to Beatrice

“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Robin
[COLOR]

Tuppy and Tue hurried up the lane
[COLOR]

Two ladies were shown into the room

The cap covered Tue from head to foot

She began to wave her arms wildly
[COLOR]

Nothing but cats

Dancing round and round and singing
[COLOR]

Down tumbled the woman
The canary performed numbers of tricks
Some children were chasing a black cat
The two fairies knelt

“Go! Be a stray cat”
[COLOR]

The Surprising Adventures
of Tuppy and Tue

~

I

Puss Finds His Boots
and Makes Mischief

As everyone knows, when the Marquis of Carabas married the princess, Puss-in-Boots became a great lord, and only hunted mice for his own amusement; but everyone does not know what happened to Puss afterwards.

The story of how Puss’s boots were stolen by the Black Witch, and how he became an idle, sleek, stupid pussycat, content to sleep and purr and do nothing (for, of course, all his power lay in the magic boots), has still to be told, and perhaps some day someone will tell it.

Then, and only then, will everyone understand how much the Black Witch hated the Fairy Queen, and why she was so eager to give his magic boots back to Puss, so that he might stir up mischief among the fairies; for, unfortunately, at that time in Fairyland, all the fairies were not contented and happy.

Some of the younger fairies, those who were not yet a thousand years old, were beginning to grumble and complain because they had not a story of their own. They wanted to distinguish themselves; they wanted to become famous in the world; to be known to the children not simply as “a fairy,” but as the fairy who did something, who helped a mortal in trouble, or saved a child from danger.

At first they only grumbled among themselves, and though the Fairy Queen knew they were discontented, she did not trouble, for she thought they would grow wiser as they grew older.

But after a time the foolish fairies began to talk over their troubles with the birds and the insects and the flowers, and of course as soon as the magpie heard their grumblings she carried the news to the Black Witch. So it came about that Lord Pussee Cattums, formerly known as Puss-in-Boots, roused himself one night from a long sleep and woke to find the magic boots beside him.

He put them on as quickly as ever he could, and gave a wild spring into the air. Then he wagged his tail, cried, “My whiskers, who would have thought it!” and began to make himself look smart. He washed his beautiful black coat, he licked himself, he shook himself, and then with a “miaow” and a purr he marched off to attend the Fairy Queen’s last ball, longing for a dozen reapers to chop into mincemeat, or an ogre to eat.

It was a beautiful sight, and promised to be a most successful ball. The winds had cleared away the fallen leaves, and had gone to rest. The Man in the Moon was lighting up the glen so brightly that two foolish young sparrows thought it was daylight and began to wake up; but they soon found out their mistake, for Jack Frost gave them a friendly nip, and they nestled closer to one another and went to sleep.

Master Jack Frost was very busy, making each leaf and twig sparkle and shine in the moonlight.

The Fairy Queen had not arrived when Lord Pussee Cattums reached the glen; but a few of the young fairies were talking together in groups.

Puss was longing for mischief, longing to begin work for his mistress the Black Witch, and Puss knew that young fairies would listen to him more quickly than old ones. He crept very quietly up to one of the groups, and hid behind the stump of a tree to listen.

“We want power,” said one of the young fairies. “Because we have no story, we are treated as if we were nobodies.”

“And one fairy is as good as another,” said a second fairy, pouting her lips. She was sitting on a toadstool swinging her legs, and looking as cross as a fairy can look.

My Lord Pussee Cattums blinked his eyes, which is, as everyone knows, the way a cat smiles. He began to feel that the Black Witch had given him back his boots at the right moment.

“We shall see, Miss Tuppy; we shall see, Miss Tue,” he whispered, nodding at the speakers.

“But what is the good of having a story nowadays?” said a third fairy. “I don’t believe the fairies have any power over mortals.”

“That’s true enough,” said an older fairy who had joined the group as the third fairy spoke. “What is the use of my magic spinning-wheel?”

Puss peeped to see who the newcomer might be. It was the Sleeping Beauty’s godmother.

“Princesses don’t spin nowadays,” continued the fairy. “How I long to prick a finger and send a maiden to sleep for a hundred years!”

The young fairies moved away. They might be discontented, and they might grumble, but they did not wish to have anything to do with a bad fairy.

Puss came out of his hiding place. “There’s my Lord Pussee Cattums awake!” cried Tuppy.

“Actually wide awake,” laughed Tue.

“Yes, wide awake,” said Puss, “more wide awake than you are. Wide awake to see many things, to be determined no longer to suffer in silence.”

“Are we suffering?” whispered one fairy to the other.

“He’s found his boots,” muttered an ugly old fairy. “He’s found his boots, then there’ll be mischief, and I’m glad of it. I want a change, I love mischief.”

Puss jumped lightly onto the stump of a tree, and the young fairies crowded round him.

“Fellow-fairies,” he began—

But immediately there were cries of “He isn’t a fairy!” — “A pair of boots don’t make a fairy!”

Puss wagged his tail angrily and tried again.

“Fellow-sufferers,” he said, and at once there was silence. “You are unhappy and miserable.”

“We are—we are!” cried the fairies.

“So was I,” said Puss, “but I have regained my treasure, and I am happy again. You must get your treasure. Some of you have never had it; some of you have lost it. You must get what I have—what these boots give me. You must have power!”

“We must have power!” cried the fairies one and all.

“How are we to get it?” asked Tuppy.

“You must rebel,” said Puss. “If your Queen will not give it to you (and she can give it to you if she will), but if she will not give it to you, you must force her to give it to you.”

“Rebel! rebel!” shouted the fairies.

“But how can we force her to give it to us?” asked one of the fairies.

“Refuse to work for her,” said Puss. “If she will not give you power, you will not give her work.”

“No work! no work!” shouted the silly fairies.

“Then, if she still will not give you power,” said Puss, “you must choose another Queen who will—”

But Puss was hustled down from his perch, and there were many cries of “No, no!” among the shouts of “Yes, yes!” for the fairies loved their Queen.

At that moment the fairy bells announcing the Queen’s approach were heard, and the fairies scattered. Puss ran away, and hid behind a holly bush.

The Queen drove into the glen, looking more beautiful than ever. Her dress of white and pink chrysanthemum leaves sparkled with frozen dewdrops, and made her look fair and pure. But something was wrong, for she did not smile and bow as she drove through the lines of fairies. She looked stern and severe, and one or two of those nearest to her thought they saw a frown on her brow.

What was wrong? Was she dreading Winter’s visit? Did he tire her with his old stories of cold, and frost, and darkness? Was she longing for Miss Spring with her beautiful airs and graces, or had she heard that her enemy, the Black Witch, had once more found a way to annoy her?

Did she see Puss-in-Boots in spite of all his efforts to hide, and did she hear his whispers, as he crept from behind the bush and moved about among the fairies?

“Ask her for power, and see what she will say, ask her why the power is lost. Show her the broken spinning-wheel, the worn-out glass slippers, the torn cap. Ask her why they are no longer used. If she won’t give you power, don’t give her work. No work! Get a new Queen! Rebel!”

The young fairies listened and joined in the cry, until all through the glen, where there should have been heard sounds of merriment and dancing, fun and frolic, there were mysterious whispers of “Power!”  “No Work!”  “Rebel!”

And the breezes heard the whisper and wafted it through the air, until at last it reached the Queen’s ears, and as she mounted her throne she shuddered.

The Queen was seated on her throne, the fairy bells had ceased to ring, and there was silence, but only for a moment, then Tue, a young fairy, stepped forward and bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” said Tue, “we would ask you to listen to us.”

The Queen bent her head.

“In days gone by,” said Tue, “the fairies have helped children, and in so doing have gained fame and glory and power. We young fairies now wish to gain honour, and we ask you to give us our wands, our power, and let us go forth to work.”

The Queen was about to answer when the ugly old fairy stepped forward.

“It is no use giving them power,” she shouted in a harsh voice, “the fairy power over mortals is lost—you have no power for good or ill nowadays.”

Several of the Queen’s guards seized her, and there were loud cries of “Silence for the Queen!” “Hear the Queen!”

The Queen rose slowly from her seat on the throne, and her clear voice could be heard throughout the glen.

“What can you mean by asking me to give you power?” she said. “Every fairy has it; every fairy has power over mortals.”

“Then we want more,” shouted a voice.

“You must learn to use what you have,” said the Queen, “learn to use it wisely, then you will have more. I cannot give it to you.”

“What did I say—will she give it you?” shouted the voice.

“Give us power,” cried a young fairy.

“The fairy power over mortals is lost,” cried the old, ugly fairy.

“It is not lost,” said the Queen, frowning angrily.

“Then why are the seven-leagued boots in pieces? Why are they never used?” asked Tuppy.

“The world is changed,” said the Queen.

But the fairies were getting too excited to listen to her.

“If you will not give us power—” began a fairy.

“We will not give you work,” shouted the voice—“we will rebel.”

“No work—rebel!” shouted the fairies.

“Silence!” said the Queen.

But there was not silence. There were only murmuring, shouting, and confusion; cries of “Rebel”—“Power”—“No work”—“We’ll have a new Queen!”

When the Queen heard the last cry she rose from her throne. She was very angry. She threw herself into her fairy carriage, and drove away from the ballroom, away from the fairies, away to her own bower. She saw that matters were getting very serious—that her enemy, the Black Witch, was plotting not only to annoy her but to harm her, and that vigorous steps must be taken to defeat the foe.

And the fairies in the glen forgot all about the ball. They continued talking and shouting, getting more and more angry, and more and more excited.

There was no dancing that night, and when the fairies left the glen there were many broken toadstools lying on the ground. The Fairy Queen, alone in her bower, was miserable; the fairies were not at all happy. But there was one happy being that night. My Lord Pussee Cattums was as happy as a cat could be, though he was so hoarse with shouting that he could not “Miaow.”

“Silly fairies,” he whispered, “silly fairies: my mistress, the Black Witch, will rejoice.”

Next morning no work was begun in Fairyland, though none of the holly berries were painted. The fairies, one and all, refused to work. The rebellion had begun.

II

The Wizard of the North’s Visit

“A pretty state of things I call it!” said the big oak tree.

“A pretty state of things indeed!” said the fir, shaking its branches.

“I say, old friend, you’ll have me down. What’s the matter now?” asked a squirrel who was sitting on one of the branches of the fir tree.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” said a young larch. “Such fun! The rebellion has begun—the fairies won’t do any work.”

“H’m!” said a big larch, “you won’t think it fun when there is nobody to help open your buds and nobody to paint your tassels.”

“Pooh!” said the young larch, “I don’t mind the fairies. Miss Spring will be coming soon.”

“Then you haven’t heard that Miss Spring’s visit has been put off?” said the big oak tree. “She is to come later.”

“No,” said the young larch. “You don’t mean that! I was thinking only today how well I should look in a few months in my bright green dress trimmed with plenty of red tassels.”

“Miss Spring’s visit put off?” said the squirrel. “I must work harder than ever, or I shan’t have enough food.”

“Miss Spring put off!” grumbled the buds. “We shall never, never, never get out.”

“Be quiet, you’ve plenty of time before you,” said the branches. “Go to sleep, go to sleep, or Jack Frost will catch you.”

“But what is this about a rebellion?” asked the squirrel.

“Well, I haven’t quite got to the bottom of it,” said the fir, “but my friend the silver birch, who lives in the glen, told a tomtit, and the tomtit told me, that last night there was quite a disturbance at the ball—no dancing, no fun, no frolic, and plenty of shouting and grumbling and quarrelling; and this morning not a fairy is at work, and they say the rebellion has begun.”

“And what does the Queen say?” asked the big oak.

“She has summoned the Wizard of the North, to ask his advice,” said the fir.

“Dear, dear!” said the larch, “is it as bad as that?”

“He’s such a chilly old gentleman,” said the oak, shaking her branches.

“He and the Queen are talking matters over now,” said a tomtit, as he hopped from twig to twig. “I peeped in at the bower, and I saw them.”

“I shall watch, and see if I can find out anything,” said a chaffinch.

At that moment a breeze came hurrying through the wood, calling at the top of his voice:

“All fairy godmothers are to appear before the Queen—all fairy godmothers—all fairy godmothers!”

“What for?” asked the big oak.

But the breeze was too busy even to stop to speak to so old a friend as the big oak tree.

“Here come the fairies,” said the fir, “they are on their way to the bower.”

“Who would have thought there were so many of them?” said the young larch.

“Young people don’t know everything,” said the oak.

“Do you know them all?” asked the young larch of the old one by his side. “Do tell me who they are?”

A number of fairies, all dressed alike—in pointed black hats, long red cloaks, and black petticoats—were making their way through the woods to the Queen’s bower. They each leaned on a short black stick as they hobbled along the path, and they looked very, very old.

“They are all dressed alike,” said the young larch, “and their faces are alike. How queer!”

“Why not?” said the old larch. “Of course they are like one another—they are all fairy godmothers.”

“But they are so old!” said the young larch.

“And would you expect Cinderella’s godmother to be a young fairy?” said the big larch. “Why, she is thousands of years old. There’s Dummling’s godmother, and there are the Sleeping Beauty’s six godmothers.”

“But why are they summoned to the Fairy Queen’s bower?” said the young larch.

“That I can’t tell you,” said the old one. “We must wait until the next breeze comes past, then we may hear some more news.”

“I can’t wait for news,” said the squirrel, “I’m off to the bower.”

But the trees were obliged to wait, nor did they have to wait long, for one breeze after another swept through the wood.

One summoned all fairy princes, another, all fairy animals to appear before the Queen; and a third called all the witches, magicians, and dwarfs to assemble.

The wood was quickly thronged with fairies of every description hastening to the Queen’s bower.

The three bears, the white cat, and the magic goose led the procession of animals, and they were followed by troops of fairy princes, and numbers of witches, magicians, and dwarfs.

The young larch began to get quite excited. “I wish I could go to the bower,” he said, “I wonder what is happening, and how it will all end.”

“Be patient, and you will hear everything in good time,” said the fir.

“The birds and the squirrels will tell us all about it,” said the oak, “and if the breezes will not answer any questions, they give us some information.”

As the oak spoke a bird came flying swiftly towards the trees.

“They are making such a noise in the bower, I can’t hear anything,” said the bird. “I never heard such quarrelling and shouting before. I waited until I saw my Lord Pussee Cattums watching me, and then I flew away. Lord Pussee Cattums is no friend to birds.”

“Is the Wizard there?” asked the oak.

“Oh, yes, he’s there,” said the bird; “but they won’t even listen to him.”

“Foolish fairies!” said the oak.

“Foolish fairies!” said the bird, “they are indeed foolish fairies. The young ones are calling out for power, and some of the old ones are declaring that the fairy power is lost. Such rubbish I never heard—I’ve had enough of it. I’m going back to my mate.”

“Well,” said the larch, “we are not much wiser. We knew they were foolish fairies.”

“Here comes another breeze,” said the fir. The breeze was a very wild one, so energetic that it snapped off one of the old larch’s branches, as it passed, crying loudly:

“All fairy gifts to appear before the Queen! All fairy gifts to appear before the Queen!”

“Some of them will have to be mended,” said the oak, “they are so old and out of repair.”

“Poor things!” said the young larch, as the gift fairies came through the wood one after the other.

The fairies looked old and worn, and the gifts they carried looked old and worn, too. The fairy spinning-wheel was broken in several places, the magic looking-glass was badly cracked; the invisible coat was torn across the back, and the seven-leagued boots wanted soling. Cinderella’s glass slippers, the cap of knowledge, the magic harp, the magic trumpet, the sword of sharpness, and the magic key, all needed mending in one way or another.

As the fairies walked slowly through the wood, they seemed to be feeling their way as though the bright sunshine dazzled and bewildered them.

“Poor things!” said the young larch.

“They haven’t used their gifts for a long time now—they seem half asleep,” said the oak.

“Why haven’t they used the gifts?” asked the larch.

“Here’s comes a robin,” cried the old larch. “Now we shall hear some news at last—robins know everything.”

“I believe my old friend the squirrel will know all about it,” said the fir. “Wait until he comes home, then we shall hear all there is to hear.”

“Make way for the Wizard of the North,” sounded through the wood, and three breezes. came rushing through the trees.

The robin was carried far away from the group of trees; but they had forgotten all about him. They were tossing their branches to warn the buds to prepare for a cold blast.

The Wizard of the North, wrapped in his grey mantle, swept through the wood on a storm. He was angry, and he did not look to the right or the left. The trees bowed their heads before him, and the branches shivered and shook, for their buds trembled at the sight of him. The birds feared him too, and hid away under leaves and in thick bushes.

Even when he had passed, the trees seemed afraid to lift their heads; but at last the young larch found courage to speak.

“I am glad he doesn’t come often,” said the young larch with a shake. “Perhaps it is as well Miss Spring is coming late—my buds won’t get over that shock in a hurry.”

“He was very angry,” said the fir. “Never before have I seen him so angry. What can have happened? Ah, here comes my friend, the squirrel. Now we shall know everything.”

“Here comes everybody,” said the young larch.

A number of birds began to peep from their hiding-places, and then to fly out into the open, and a party of squirrels were hopping from branch to branch. The wood began to be alive once more.

“Well?” said the oak, as a tomtit and a chaffinch settled on its branches.

“Well?” said the old larch, as a robin and a sparrow hopped upon it.

“Well?” said the fir, as the squirrel ran up to its topmost branch.

“Well, well, well?” said the young larch.

“That is exactly it,” said the squirrel.

“It isn’t well, it is ill,” said all the birds in chorus.

“I am sorry,” said the oak.

“Not as sorry as I am,” said the fir.

“Or I,” said the old larch.

“I wish I knew why I was sorry,” said the young larch.

“Then I’ll tell you,” said the squirrel.

“We’ll all tell you,” said the birds.

“There will be no work done in Fairyland for some time,” said the squirrel.

“We shall have no holly berries, and we shall starve,” said the birds.

“Then the rebellion is not over?” said the oak.

“Over!” said the squirrel, “it has only just begun. The fairies will not listen to their Queen, and they believe all the silly stories that Puss-in-Boots has told them.”

“I have no patience with them,” declared the fir.

“Then what are they going to do?” asked the young larch.

“Two of the young fairies, Tuppy and Tue, are to be sent into the world with all the fairy gifts, to find out if the gifts are useless and if the fairy power over mortals is lost,” said the squirrel.

“Lord Pussee Cattums says the power is lost, I suppose,” said the old larch.

“And the fairies wish to find out for themselves,” said the tomtit, “and I say quite right too.”

“So do I,” whispered the young larch.

“Ah!” sighed the oak, “it was a very bad day for Fairyland when the oldest and wisest fairy left us to live among mortals. She could have taught these young fairies many a wise lesson.”

“Perhaps she will teach Tuppy and Tue,” said the fir.

“They will never listen to her,” said the oak, “young fairies will never listen to her.”

“What is her name?” asked the young larch.

“Fairy Experience,” said the old one. “She is a wise and good fairy, and a great teacher.”

“A cross old thing, I call her,” said the tomtit. “I asked her to help me the other day, and—”

“She told you to do something you didn’t like,” said the oak.

“So she did,” said the tomtit, hopping away.

“Now, my young friend—” said the oak. But the young larch was listening to the squirrel, who was still talking about the fairies.

“Of course, they will get into trouble,” said the squirrel; “but they will gain knowledge, and when they come back to Fairyland—”

“Ah, what will happen then?” asked the young larch.

“If the fairies agree that Lord Pussee Cattums is right, that the gifts are useless, and that the fairy power over mortals is lost,” said the tomtit, “then a new Queen will be chosen, a new—”

“Everything will have to be new,” said the robin.

“But if the Queen is right, and if Lord Pussee Cattums is wrong?” whispered the squirrel.

“They will have to do double work,” said the old oak, “and beg the Queen’s pardon, and I hope she will punish them all.”

“But nothing will be ready for Miss Spring,” grumbled the old larch.

“Oh, she’s been put off before, she won’t mind,” said the young larch.

“Well, well, well, we shall see,” said the squirrel.

“It’s a bad business,” said the robin. “How the fairies can be so silly as to listen to a—Good afternoon!”

And the robin flew away in a great hurry. My Lord Pussee Cattums, quite forgetting that he was a lord, was tumbling through the wood head over heels, and heels over head.

He was so pleased with himself that he would have chased his tail if no bird had been in sight.

“Well,” he said to the young larch tree, “isn’t this fun?”

And he began sharpening his claws on the tree trunk.

The young larch did not answer, did not make a sound.

“I’m off to see what happens,” said my Lord Pussee Cattums.

A beautiful Blue Bird flew through the trees over his head.

“Who is that?” whispered the young larch.

“I don’t know,” said the old one.

“Whither away?” called the tomtit as the bird passed him.

But the Blue Bird made no reply.

“My whiskers!” cried Lord Pussee Cattums, “who is that beautiful stranger?”

The Blue Bird flew on its way undisturbed.

III

“Dear, Darling Mamma”

“Beryl won’t be back yet. We shall have plenty of time to get our bonfire well started. Then the real fun will begin when she appears. Set to work, boys!”

And the boys set to work earnestly and energetically. They picked up every bit of stick to be seen on the village green, and some of them ran down the road seeking for bigger pieces in the hedges and ditches.

The leader of the party, a bright handsome boy, built up the bonfire carefully, as if he thoroughly understood the work, and at last, when all was ready, he set fire to the pile and started it burning merrily.

“Now,” he cried, “as soon as I catch sight of Beryl, I will give a signal. Then we’ll all join hands and dance round the fire. As soon as she sees us, and comes running across the Green to see what we are up to, I will draw my book from my pocket. Have you each brought a book?”

“I have our old ‘Grimm,’” said one boy.

“And I have Betty’s ‘Hans Andersen,’” said another.

“I have a book,” cried another.

“So have I, so have I,” cried several together.

“Very well, then you all know what to do,” said the leader. “We must have a good fire.”

“Not too big, or we shall have some of the old grannies coming to tell us it is dangerous,” said a big red-faced boy.

“Indeed, we shall,” said a little boy. “Look out! stand round the fire. There are two old grannies coming up the road this very minute.”

“Who are they?” asked the red-faced boy.

“I don’t know them,” said the leader.

“Why, they are the ladies who have come to live in that old tumble-down cottage near our farm,” said one of the boys.

“Perhaps they are gipsies,” said the leader.

“Hush—they will hear you,” said the little boy.

The two old ladies were coming across the Green towards the boys. They looked very old, but they walked quite briskly, and one of them carried a large bundle under her cloak.

“Good afternoon, little gentlemen,” said one of the old ladies as they drew near to the group of boys. “What game may you be playing?”

The boys looked at one another, and then at the old ladies. One or two of them murmured “Good afternoon,” and several touched their caps, but nobody answered the old lady’s question.

“Dear me, what very rude boys,” said the other old lady.

The first one turned to the handsome boy, the leader of the party.

“Won’t you tell us, Master Lance, what game you are playing, so that we may join in your fun?” she said.

The boy looked rather astonished when the old lady addressed him by name, but when she proposed joining in the game he smiled.

“I think you would not enjoy our games, ma’am,” he said.

“Don’t you think they look rather like witches?” whispered the little boy to the boy next him.

“Don’t be silly—there are no witches,” said the boy, “and be quiet—they will hear you.”

“Beryl will be back directly, Lance, and these meddling old ladies will spoil our fun,” whispered the red-faced boy.

“Hush!” said Lance.

But the old ladies had turned away, and were talking busily to one another.

“We must wait and watch,” said one.

“We cannot expect the children to be very friendly at first,” said the other.

At that moment one of the boys caught sight of a little girl hurrying up the road.

“There is Beryl. Beryl!” he called to the boys.

Lance threw a handful of bracken on the fire, and shouting, “Remember, remember,” the boys joined hands in a big circle, and began dancing round the fire.

“Now, ladies, out of the way, or we shall knock you over!” shouted Lance.

The little girl came hurrying across the Green to the boys.

“Lance, what are you doing? May I play?” she called.

The boys stopped their wild dance, and each boy produced a book from his pocket, and held it high over his head.

“We are going to burn these rubbishy old books,” said Lance, “unless you promise—”

“Burn books!” said Beryl, running to Lance. Then she gave a cry of astonishment and horror. “Why, Lance, it is my fairy book? You must not burn that—it is my favourite book.”

“We shall burn every fairy book in the village unless you solemnly promise—” began Lance.

But he was stopped by one of the old ladies seizing him roughly by the arm.

“Wicked boy!” she cried. “Burn the fairy books! You little know what will happen to you: I will turn you—”

“Hush, sister!” cried the other old lady, dropping her bundle in her excitement, “that is not the way.”

“And Lance is not a wicked boy,” said Beryl indignantly, “he does not really mean to burn my beautiful fairy book.”

“I wish these troublesome old ladies would leave us alone,” cried Lance. “Anyhow, it is no business of theirs. It is my book as much as Beryl’s, and I can do what I like with my own.”

He raised the book once more in the air, as if he were going to throw it into the fire.

“Yes, let’s burn the stupid books,” cried the red-faced boy. “I detest fairy tales, and the girls would be much better if they did not read so much nonsense.”

“Bob!” cried Beryl, in a tone of horror.

Meanwhile the two old ladies were shaking their heads, and talking excitedly to one an other.

“They are wicked children, they must be taught a lesson. I will do it. Burn the fairy books, indeed!” said the one who had seized Lance’s arm.

The other old lady tried to calm her friend, but it was of no use. Shaking with anger, she stepped forward and raised her stick in the air.

“Wicked boys, I forbid you to burn the books!” she cried.

“Then we’ll do it,” said Bob, the red-faced boy, and he held his book over the fire.

Beryl tried to stop him, but she was too late; the book fell from his hand into the fire. Some of the other books might have followed Bob’s, but at that moment a lady made her way into the centre of the group of children. Nobody had seen her cross the Green; the children and the two old ladies had been far too interested in what was going on to take notice of anything outside. But as soon as Beryl caught sight of her she threw her arms round her with a pleased cry of “Mamma, mamma!”

Every boy tried his hardest to hide his book out of sight. Small books were thrust into knickerbockers, and big books disappeared in a marvellous way, but few of them escaped the sharp eyes of the lady.

“Now, Lance,” she said, turning without any hesitation to the leader of the mischief, “what have you been doing—not annoying these good ladies, I hope!”

Before Lance had time to explain, the angry old lady began to speak.

“They are wicked children,” she said, “they ought to be punished severely. They wished to burn the fairy tales—all the fairy books in the village.”

The lady smiled, and looked from Beryl to Lance.

“I don’t think they really meant to burn the books,” she said. “I fancy one naughty boy wished to tease his sister because he fancies she reads too many fairy tales, and perhaps he was pretending that he wished to burn them,” and she shook her head at Lance.

“Of course he didn’t mean to burn them,” said Beryl, “he is as fond of fairy tales as I am.”

“We are all fond of fairy tales,” said one of the boys, “we never meant to burn the books really.”

“Of course not,” said another boy.

“But one book has been burnt,” said Beryl,

“It was only a bit of a book,” said Bob, “more than half the pages were out.”

“And that would not have happened if—” said Lance, and he looked angrily at the old ladies.

“I hope the children have not been rude to you,” said the lady, turning to the old ladies.

“I am afraid we were, rather,” said one of the boys.

“I’m afraid we were rude,” said Lance. “I beg your pardon—both your pardons,” and he turned to the old ladies, cap in hand.

Strange to say, his words seemed to upset the angry old lady more than the burning of the book had done. She stared at him, she rubbed her eyes with the corner of her cloak, and stared at him again; then she looked at her companion, and shook her head.

The other boys were busily nudging one another, and pointing to Lance’s cap.

“We all beg your pardon,” said one of the boys.

“We were rude,” said another.

“But, you know, you were very—” began Bob, but Beryl frowned at him.

“You didn’t understand that the boys were only teasing,” said Beryl.

It was altogether too much for the old ladies. They did not say a word of approval or disapproval to the boys; but the angry one, no longer angry, turned to the other and said: “Pick up the bundle, and come home, Tue.”

“I’ll help you pick up your things,” said Beryl, and she began to gather them together.

Such queer things! A pair of shiny shoes, a big pair of boots, a cap, a coat, some bottles. Beryl could not help wondering how some of them could be useful to two old ladies, and she longed to ask ever so many questions.

The old ladies watched her, and did not even speak whilst the things were being gathered together, and Beryl did not like to make any remark.

The boys were busy stamping out the fire, and listening to a short sharp lecture from the lady on burning books, and teasing sisters, and being rude, and other topics. They were feeling rather ashamed of themselves and wishing that the old ladies would go, so that they could speak their minds freely.

At last the things were collected and the bundle tied up, and then one of the old ladies spoke.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said to Beryl, “thank you. I’m glad if the boys were only pretending, and only teasing, but I think it was a very good thing that the lady came. I hope she will scold the boys well for even thinking of burning the fairy books. She’s your mother, I think you said.”

“She is mamma,” said Beryl, “dear, darling mamma—not my own mother—my stepmother. Mind, you’ll drop the bundle!”

And indeed the old lady seemed as if she were not only going to drop the bundle, but as if she were about to fall to the ground. “A stepmother!” she said, and she turned to the other old lady. “Tue, did you hear? The lady—the lady—the child says the lady is her stepmother.”

The other old lady had evidently heard, for she was shaking her head and looking very, very much puzzled.

“Come, Tuppy,” she said, “come,” and the two old ladies marched off across the Green, murmuring to one another:

“A stepmother, Tue!”

“She said a stepmother, Tuppy!

IV

Fairy Flowers

“There must have been some mistake,” said Tue.

“It sounds impossible; but the child certainly said the lady was her stepmother,” and Tuppy shook her head slowly.

“Well, I don’t understand it,” said Tue, “I don’t understand it at all. Perhaps the Queen is right, perhaps the world is—”

“Nonsense!” said Tuppy sharply, “we may as well go back at once if that is the way you are going to talk; though, certainly, that lady was not a bit like any stepmother I ever heard of. I am quite sure Cinderella never called her stepmother ‘dear, darling mamma.’”

“Perhaps the child is a good child, and tries to make the best of it,” said Tue.

“I don’t think she can be very good,” said Tuppy, “she was not at all a pretty child. Now her brother was a fine handsome boy.”

“And he wanted to burn the fairy books,” said Tue, “though the lady said it was only to tease his sister.”

“And the lady was a stepmother,” continued Tuppy.

“I don’t understand it,” said Tue.

“Well, then, give up trying,” said Tuppy crossly, “and come and help clean the cottage—these windows are as dirty as—”

“If we hadn’t cleaned them several times already,” said Tue. “Well, the Queen was right about one thing, anyway. She said we were not to go to a town, because the towns were so dirty, and the smoke would choke us; and certainly we should have been killed in any place dirtier than this.”

“Perhaps the town children would have been more friendly than these village children,” said Tuppy.

“Oh, these children will be friendly soon,” said Tue. “We must make the cottage look pretty if we want the children to come. Those flowers in the garden look very well.”

“Of course they won’t last long,” said Tuppy. “It is very stuffy in here, don’t you think we might open the door?”

“I can’t think why people live in houses,” said Tue, “when they might live in woods. We won’t stay here at night, will we?”

She opened the door wide, and looked out.

Three people—a farmer, an old gentleman, and an old lady—were standing at the gate, staring in at the garden.

“Good morning, madam,” said the farmer, as soon as he caught sight of Tue.

Tue did not answer, but turned away.

“Not a child there,” she said to Tuppy, “only three grown-up people.”

“No fairy wants to talk to a grown-up person,” said Tuppy.

“Perhaps they will send the children to look at our flowers,” said Tue.

“Listen, they are talking about them,” said Tuppy.

Through the open doorway came the sound of voices.

“Of course, we have had very little frost yet,” said a gentle lady’s voice.

“But still, madam, it is surely remarkable to see lilies of the valley growing in the open air in October,” said the farmer.

“I don’t think they are lilies,” said the lady.

“And look at those poppies,” said the old gentleman. “I must certainly write to the papers.”

“Not poppies, surely,” said the lady.

Tue was smiling at Tuppy.

“Of course they are not poppies,” said the farmer, “they are roses, and very fine roses too. But those lilies are remarkable. I shall expect to see primroses next, and hear the cuckoo.”

“Don’t you think those are primroses?” said the lady, pointing to a bed of flowers.

“My dear madam!” said the farmer.

“My dear lady!” said the gentleman.

“They are primulas,” said the farmer.

“Oxlips, you mean,” said the gentleman.

The lady began to laugh.

“Those, I mean,” she said, pointing again, “those, those primroses.”

“If I were to pick one,” said the farmer, “you would see in a moment that they were primulas.”

“But you can’t pick our flowers,” whispered Tuppy laughing.

“Madam,” called the farmer, “madam.”

“Don’t let him see you,” whispered Tuppy.

“Madam, may I be allowed to pick one of your fine primulas?”

“Primroses,” said the lady.

Tue peeped out of the window, and Tuppy leaned over her shoulder, to see what was happening in the garden.

“He will try to pick the flowers,” whispered Tuppy.

The farmer was walking up the garden slowly.

“Now for fun,” whispered Tue.

And then from the cottage there were shrill peals of laughter.

The old farmer was staring in astonishment at the ground.

“Dear me, dear me—very queer!” he said.

“Well?” called the lady from the gate.

“Which are they?” called the old gentleman.

“Primroses or primulas?” said the lady.

The farmer stooped again, and again there was the shrill peal of laughter from the cottage.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”

Was it a clock? It sounded very much like a real bird.

The farmer stared at the ground, then at the cottage; then he rubbed his eyes, and walked out of the garden.

“Did you hear the cuckoo?” said the old gentleman, “I shall certainly write to the papers. I will go home, and do it at once.”

“You haven’t picked a flower after all,” said the lady.

“He hasn’t picked a flower,” whispered Tuppy to Tue.

“My dear madam, I am in a hurry,” said the farmer, “I will wish you a very good morning.”

He walked quickly down the road, murmuring to himself, “Only bits of stone—how blind I am getting!”

“I hope nothing is the matter,” said the old lady. “He looked very queer.”

“We will follow him,” said the gentleman, “but the cuckoo, the cuckoo. ‘Dear sir, you will be surprised to learn that the cuckoo has been heard in our neighbourhood.’ I must write that letter at once.”

And they hastened after the farmer.

“He won’t try to pick fairy flowers again,” said Tuppy. “Didn’t he look astonished?”

“I wish the children would come,” said Tue. “They shall pick flowers, if they wish.”

Tuppy was looking anxiously out of the window.

“If the children don’t come soon, we must go and look for them,” said Tue.

“Tue,” called Tuppy, “I can see children coming up the hill.”

“How many?” said Tue, hastening to the window.

“Three, of course,” said Tuppy.

“Capital!” said Tue. “Hurrah!”

The two fairies joined hands, and, quite forgetting that they were old ladies, danced round and round the room.

“Now if only they all belong to one family,” said Tue, “we shall know what to do.”

“The youngest will be the handsomest and the noblest,” said Tuppy.

“And to him we shall present our gifts,” said Tue.

“They will stop at the gate,” said Tuppy.

“We will listen and hear what they are saying,” said Tue, “and then we shall know how to help our noble boy.”

“I am afraid,” said Tuppy, “the youngest—the smallest—looked like a girl.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Tue. “We will help her. She is sure to be starting out on a journey, and we will give her the bag that is always filled with gold.”

“Or we will ask her if she wishes to marry a prince,” said Tuppy.

“Perhaps her prince has been carried away from her, and shut up in a dreadful dungeon,” said Tue.

“Then we will rescue him,” said Tuppy.

“Hush!” said Tue, “they are nearly at the gate—we must watch and listen. Why, I believe—yes, Tuppy, it is. It is the little girl we were talking about. It is Beryl, the little girl with the queer stepmother, and her brother too. Now we shall hear all about them.”

“I hope you will win, Lance,” Beryl was saying as the children came up the road towards the gate.

Tuppy looked at Tue, and nodded and smiled.

“He shall win,” said Tuppy, “he is so handsome.”

“But he is the eldest of three, not the youngest,” said Tue.

“How many more days are there to wait, Beryl?” asked the little girl who was with them.

“The sports are on Saturday afternoon,” said Beryl, “and this is Thursday.”

“What are sports?” whispered Tuppy.

“Hush!” said Tue. “There they are at the gate. Now they will see our flowers.”

The children were not thinking about flowers, however.

“I shall ask father to let me give away the prizes,” said the little girl, tossing her head, “and I shall wear my white dress.”

“Nonsense, Beatrice,” said Beryl, “it is too cold for white dresses.”

“Beatrice is a very pretty child,” said Tuppy.

“And the youngest of three,” said Tue. “We must help her. Shall we ask about the prince?”

“No, wait and listen,” said Tuppy. “The boy is handsome. We must help him too.”

“There is Bob coming up the hill,” said Beatrice, “shall we wait for him?”

The children stopped opposite the cottage gate.

“Now is our chance,” said Tuppy, “bring the gifts, and let us speak to the children.”

“Look at the flowers, Beatrice,” said Beryl. “They are beautiful, and so late in the year. What can they be?”

“I should like a bunch to hold in my hand when I give the prizes away,” said Beatrice.

“Good morning!” shouted Bob, as he came along the lane. “What are you looking at?”

“The flowers,” said Beryl. “They are beautiful, at this time of year. Look at them.”

“I don’t much care about flowers,” he said. “I want to talk to Lance about the race.”

But at that moment the two old ladies appeared at the cottage door.

“There are the meddlesome old ladies,” said Bob. “Come on, Lance—hurry.”

“Good morning,” said Tuppy.

“Good morning, dear children,” said Tue.

“Good morning,” said Beryl.

“You must wait a minute, Bob,” said Lance.

Beatrice was rather frightened, and hid behind her sister.

“We wanted to ask you about Saturday afternoon,” said Tuppy. “May we come to the—” and Tuppy hesitated.

“You can come if Lance asks you,” said Bob. “It is his birthday, and they are his sports.”

“I am sure my father will be glad to see you in the park, if you care to come,” said Lance politely; “but only the boys and girls are coming. The sports are for children, not grown-up people.”

“We have never seen sports,” said Tuppy.

The children looked very much astonished.

“We heard you saying you wanted to win,” said Tue quickly. “May we ask what it is you wish to win? Perhaps we could help you.”

Lance could not help smiling, and Bob began to laugh loudly.

“Lance wants to win the race,” explained Beryl.

“I am afraid you could not help me, ma’am,” said Lance.

“Do not be so sure about that,” said Tuppy.

“If you will wear these boots—” said Tue, and she held up the famous seven-leagued boots which once upon a time were worn by Hop-o’-my-Thumb.

“You will win any race,” said Tuppy.

Lance looked at the boots and then at the old ladies, and put both hands behind his back.

“It is a bicycle race,” said Beryl quickly, for Lance looked as if he were going to say something rude.

“What, my dear?” said Tuppy.

“They are to ride on bicycles, not run on foot,” said Beryl.

“And nobody could even walk in boots like those,” said Lance. “Good morning, ma’am. Come, Bob.” Lance turned away.

“The poor old lady is crazy,” whispered Bob. “I thought so the other day.”

“Well!” said Tuppy indignantly.

“Lance did not mean to be rude,” said Beryl, “and he could not wear those old boots.”

“He wears shoes,” said Beatrice, “when he rides his bicycle.”

“Then these,” said Tue, and she took a pair of shoes out of her bundle.

“Of course,” said Tuppy, smiling, “those shoes would help him.”

“He could not wear those for bicycling, ma’am,” said Beryl.

“They would slip off his feet,” said Beatrice.

Tue looked very sad, and shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about bicycling,” she said.

“Well, if you come on Saturday, you will see the bicycle race,” said Beryl. “I am going in for it too, though, of course, I shan’t win.”

“Of course not,” said Tuppy.

“Come, Beatrice,” said Beryl, “we must go. Good morning, ma’am.”

And she took Beatrice’s hand, and they ran down the lane after the boys.

“Dear me! dear me!” said Tuppy, “what are we to do if the children will not take our gifts?”

“How stupid we are!” said Tue after a minute or two. “We have been trying to help the eldest of three. Of course he will do no good in the world—he cannot win a race. We ought to have found something the little girl wanted.”

“Well, it is not too late,” said Tuppy. “Let us fly after them.”

She dropped her cloak, Tue dropped hers, and a moment later two birds flew out of the cottage window down the lane.

V

Cinderella’s Slippers

Out in the sunshine the birds were singing merrily, trying to make the most of the bright autumn day. But as soon as the two strange birds appeared, the trills and chirrups were changed to wondering twitters and chirps.

“Whither away?” called a robin.

“What are you carrying?” asked a chaffinch.

“They don’t know us,” whispered Tue.

“Of course not,” said Tuppy.

“Have you seen four children?” called Tue.

“I saw two boys hopping down the lane,” said the robin. “One of them threw a stone at me.”

“We know they are bad boys,” said Tuppy.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said the robin. “The boy didn’t mean to hurt me—he knew he wouldn’t hit me.”

“Have you seen any girls?” asked Tuppy.

“Not one,” said the robin.

And though Tuppy and Tue flew up and down the lane, and asked many birds, they could hear nothing of the two girls.

“Well, that’s very curious,” said Tue, “I didn’t think we were so far behind. They must have gone the other way.”

“But they didn’t,” said Tuppy, “and, oh, dear! I do wish I hadn’t brought Cinderella’s slippers—they are so heavy.”

“Drop them,” said Tue, “we can fetch them presently.”

Tuppy flew to a tree in the hedge, and dropped the slippers.

“Now then,” said a sleepy voice, “mind what you are doing. If you throw things about like that, some day you may—” And then the voice stopped.

“Who is it?” said Tuppy.

“Only a hedgehog,” said Tue, “and he is all right, he’s off to sleep again.”

“There goes a rabbit,” said Tuppy, as something rushed wildly across the road and a white tail disappeared in the hedge.

“Perhaps the rabbit could give us some news, I’ll go and call.” And Tue flew to the hole in the hedge through which the rabbit had disappeared.

“Mr. Bunny!’” she called.

“I’m not at home,” said a very small voice. “Who calls?”

“Only a bird,” said Tue.

“What do you want?” said the voice.

“If you will come out I will tell you,” said Tue. “I want to speak to you.”

“I can’t come out,” said the voice. “I have had such a terrible fright, I don’t think I shall ever come out any more.”

“What is the matter? What has happened?” said Tue.

“Don’t bother him, stupid thing,” said Tuppy, “rabbits are so easily scared.”

“I was going for a walk,” said the rabbit’s voice, and it sounded a little more distinct, as if he were coming nearer the entrance to his hole, “I was going for a walk on the other side of the road, when all at once I heard such a queer noise close beside me.”

“What was it?” asked Tuppy.

“You said the other side of the road,” said Tue, “but which side of the hedge?”

“The other side of the hedge, the other side of the road. The other girl said—I mean, such a queer noise,” said the rabbit.

“Come along,” said Tue.

“Where?” said Tuppy.

“Such a queer noise—I didn’t know the things could make such a noise,” said the rabbit.

But Tuppy and Tue had flown away across the road, over the hedge, and there on the other side, sitting under the hawthorn bushes, were Beryl and Beatrice.

“What did I tell you?” said Tue. “Now, what are they doing?”

It was easy to see what Beatrice was doing. Both hands were up to her eyes, and the tears were rolling down her cheeks. She was crying—and Beryl was busy with something in her lap.

“A maiden in distress,” cried Tue, joyfully, “the youngest of three in trouble. Now we shall be able to help her. Now we shall find out if the gifts are useless.”

“Why does not her cruel sister comfort her?” said Tuppy. “Very probably she is the cause of the trouble; very likely she made her cry.”

“Never mind,” said Tue, “we will soon put matters straight. Listen, they are talking.”

“I don’t know what I am to do,” sobbed Beatrice. “I can’t go home without them.”

“It was so silly of you to come out in them,” said Beryl. “Nurse told you to change them.”

“There,” said Tuppy, “do you hear? She is scolding our pretty darling.”

“They are so pretty,” said Beatrice.

“They are not pretty now,” said Beryl, and she held up a pair of red shoes.

Perhaps the shoes had once been pretty, but now they were covered with mud, and cut and torn with stones—one torn so badly as to make it no longer useful as a shoe.

“Dear, dear!” said Tue.

“What is to be done?” said Tuppy.

“I can’t keep that shoe on,” said Beatrice, “and if I could keep it on, I couldn’t walk in it—the stones would hurt my foot.”

“You must hop home,” said Beryl. “I would carry you if I could.”

“Lance could carry me,” sobbed Beatrice.

“But Lance is not here,” said Beryl. “Shall I go back to the cottage, and borrow that old pair of boots?”

There was a whirring noise in the tree above them, and two birds flew out and away.

“I wouldn’t wear those ugly old boots,” said Beatrice.

“Well, what are we to do?.” said Beryl. “Mamma will be wondering where we are: it is late now. You must walk without shoes, Beatrice. We will keep in the fields as long as we can.”

But this proposal only made Beatrice cry more bitterly than ever.

“Then you must stay here, and I will run and tell Nurse,” said Beryl.

“I can’t stay in this field all by myself,” sobbed Beatrice.

“I’ll help you into the lane,” said Beryl, “and then I’ll run home and fetch another pair of shoes.”

And Beatrice was obliged to consent. With Beryl’s help she hopped along the field, through the gate into the lane; then she settled herself in the hedge, close to Mr. Bunny’s hole.

Beryl set off running down the lane as fast as her legs could carry her.

Beatrice watched her out of sight, then she wiped her eyes and lay back in the grass, wondering how long she would have to wait.

“I wish I had changed my shoes,” she said to herself, “I wish I hadn’t torn them. I wish Beryl would be quick. I know Nurse will scold me. What’s that?”

There was a noise in the hedge close beside her. It was only Mr. Bunny inside his house, and if Beatrice had only been able to understand rabbit language, she might have heard him saying:

“I’m not at home. I had such a fright; I didn’t know little girls could make such a noise. I’m not at home.”

But Beatrice did not understand. She guessed it was an animal of some kind, and she lay back in the grass and listened to the hundreds of noises of all kinds going on about her.

Presently there was a flutter of wings as two birds flew over her head, and then a sound of something dropping on the ground not far from her.

She sat up quickly and stared about her. Then she rubbed her eyes, to make sure that she really was wide awake, and looked again.

Quite a short distance away on the ground, there were two things.

Beatrice stared at them for one, two, three whole minutes; then she moved towards them, and picked them up.

They were shoes—not very new shoes, shoes made of some queer, hard, shiny stuff—not a comfortable-looking pair of shoes, but still a far better pair than the ones that lay beside her on the grass.

Without quite realising what she was doing, she began to pull one of the shoes on her foot.

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!” sang the bird in the tree above her. It was Tuppy, and she was saying: “Hurrah! hurrah! Now the pretty one’s troubles are over. A prince will come and make her happy.”

Beatrice tried the shoe, first on one foot and then on the other.

“It doesn’t seem to fit. That is queer,” said Tue.

“And I don’t see the prince coming,” said Tuppy, and she flew away from the tree up high into the air.

Beatrice picked up the second shoe, and tried that, first on one foot and then on the other.

“It is a pity they fit so badly,” she said. “I should have thought they were nearly the same size as my own.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Tue, “they don’t seem to fit her at all. Of course, they would fit her if she were the right person to wear them; but I don’t believe she will be able to walk in them at all. Yet she is the youngest of the three, and very pretty. Well, well, I fear the gifts are useless.”

Beatrice had at last managed to get her feet into the shoes, and she picked herself up from the ground. But it was evident that she found them uncomfortable to stand in, and as soon as she tried to walk she slipped and tumbled to the ground.

“There!” said Tue. “I knew she would do it. I shall have to tell Tuppy that Cinderella’s shoe—Dear, dear, there she goes again!”

Beatrice had picked herself up, and tried to start again, only to tumble down once more. This time she pulled the shoes off.

“Horrid things!” she said. “Stupid things, to trip me up that way.”

She threw first one shoe and then the other away from her into the middle of the road. Then she once more began to cry.

Tuppy came down from her flight into the clouds.

“It is all right,” she said, “the prince is coming!”

“All wrong, you mean,” said Tue. “Look at those shoes.”

“Why, she hasn’t put them on!” said Tuppy. “Never mind, that doesn’t matter, the prince will put them on.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Tue. “She did put them on, but she couldn’t even walk in them. Cinderella danced beautifully in them. I don’t know what to think. And you say the prince is coming. Have you entirely and completely forgotten what a prince is like?”

Certainly the boy driving the cart down the lane did not look much like a prince in a fairy story.

He was a merry-looking boy with red cheeks and curly hair, and as he jogged along in the cart, he whistled away to himself and his horse.

“Hullo!” he shouted to Beatrice, and he pulled up the horse beside her.

Beatrice looked up, and tucked her feet quickly beneath her.

“Why, it is Miss Beatrice!” said the boy. “What’s the matter? Can I do anything?”

“Do anything, indeed,” said Tue indignantly. “Is it likely that he can do anything—a boy like that? What is wanted is a prince.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Tuppy, “I only thought he must be a prince, because a prince ought to come. Of course, this boy can do no good at all.”

The boy, meantime, had climbed down from the cart, and was standing beside, Beatrice looking very much puzzled.

“If you haven’t hurt yourself, and if there’s nothing the matter,” he was saying, “I can’t see why you don’t get up and go home, instead of crying there.”

“I wish you would go away, Jack,” said Beatrice crossly.

“Oh, very well,” said Jack, “of course, if you don’t want me—”

“I thought as much,” said Tuppy, as Jack began to climb into the cart again. “A prince would never leave a weeping maiden.”

“What is to be done?” said Tue. “We must do something. We had better—”

And away flew the birds.

Jack took up the reins, and looked at Beatrice, then he once more climbed down from the cart and walked towards her. Beatrice had stopped crying, but she looked very cross.

“Look here,” said Jack. “I can’t leave you like this, and you know I can’t. Jump up into the cart, and let me take you home.”

“I wish you would go away,” said Beatrice. “Beryl will be here directly, she has gone to fetch me a pair of—”

And then she stopped and pulled her dress once more over her feet. She had not meant to let Jack know anything about her shoes. But it was too late.

“Oh,” said Jack, “you’ve lost your shoes, have you? Well, here’s a pair. Pop these on.”

He picked up the fairy shoes and put them on Beatrice’s feet; but as soon as she tried to walk in them, she stumbled and would have fallen if she had not clung to Jack.

“That’s no good,” said Jack. “Miss Beatrice, do let me lift you into the cart.”

Beatrice pouted, and shook her head. “My feet will be so cold,” she said.

“You can wear these slippers to keep them warm,” said Jack, “and you shall have my coat for a cushion, and be as comfortable as a real live princess.”

“Very well, but be quick!” said Beatrice. “I’ll come. There are those two silly old ladies coming down the lane. I don’t want to talk to them.”

Tuppy and Tue were hastening to the rescue; but they only arrived in time to see that the children had disappeared, for Jack had lifted Beatrice into the cart and driven away.

“Well, that’s queer,” said Tuppy, when they reached the rabbit’s hole. “The little girl isn’t here.”

“The boy must have driven her away in his cart, after all,” said Tue.

“Listen,” said Tuppy.

The robin in the tree above them was chirping to his mate.

“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Robin, “I would not have taken all that trouble over a silly little girl. I should have flown away, and left her to cry by herself in the hedge.”

“Jack Prince has a kind heart,” said Mrs. Robin. “You ought to know that by this time.”

“That’s true—that’s true!” said Mr. Robin. “He is a real good friend. What should we have done without him last winter?”

“Jack Prince!” whispered Tuppy to Tue. “Then he is a prince, after all.”

“Listen, listen,” said Tue. “The robins are talking about us.”

“I don’t know anything about them,” Mr. Robin was saying, “but I heard no good of them in the village, and Beatrice called them ‘silly old ladies.’”

“Tue,” cried Tuppy, “come home. Don’t let us waste our time listening to the foolish gossip of idle robins,” and Tuppy and Tue hurried up the lane. .

Mr. Robin continued his remarks to Mrs. Robin.

“Did you notice those two strange birds a little while ago?” he said. “I wonder—”

“Don’t wonder,” said a sleepy voice, “wondering will only bring you trouble. If I hadn’t wondered what all the fuss was about, I might have been asleep this—”

“And if I hadn’t wondered what the other side of the hedge was like,” said Mr. Bunny, as the hedgehog fell asleep in the middle of his sentence, “I should never have had that fright. But I didn’t know little girls could make such a noise.”

The robin and his mate had flown away in search of the two strange birds; but they did not find them.

VI

What Became of the Slippers

“One, two, three—one, two, three,” said Beryl, dancing up and down the room. “I really am getting to do it a little better. One, two, three.”

“Beryl Beryl!” called Lance. “I want you.”

“I’m practising my steps, Lance,” said Beryl.

“Bother!” said Lance. “I want you to look at these ribbons. Which colours shall I wear tomorrow?”

“One, two, three,” said Beryl, sliding up and down the room. “I’ll look at them this evening when we come home from the dancing lesson. We shall have to start in half an hour, and you know Mr. Gerridge said—”

“I know all about that,” said Lance crossly, “but it is not a bit of good for you to practise. Joan dances better than you do, and Joan will be chosen to dance in the minuet. Besides, I want you to look at these ribbons. Don’t be so disagreeable, Beryl.”

Beryl sighed a deep sigh, then ran across the room to Lance.

“Of course, you must wear blue, Lance,” she said. “Blue is by far the prettiest colour, and it means ‘true,’ and that is the best thing to be.”

“I’d rather wear red,” said Lance, “it shows up more.”

“Wear blue and white,” said Beryl, “that will show on your dark jersey.”

“Or red and white,” said Lance. “Make me a rosette of red and white ribbon, will you, Beryl 7”

“I’ll make a blue and white one and a red and white one this evening,” said Beryl, “and then you can wear one, and I will give the other away.”

But Lance could not wait until the evening, and Beryl agreed to do as he wished.

She sewed away industriously, but the rosettes took some little time to make, and by the time they were finished, very little time was left for practising steps.

“One, two, three,” began Beryl, again gliding smoothly backwards and forwards, and she was so much interested in what she was doing that she did not realise that anybody was watching her.

“One, two, three,” said Beryl. “I am sure the steps are easier to do. I am getting on a little bit.”

And the lady watching at the door nodded and smiled. She, too, seemed to think Beryl was getting on. She watched a few minutes longer, then she slipped away as quietly as she had come.

“Beryl! Beryl!” called Lance’s voice once more, “it is time to get ready.”

“If only I had half an hour more!” said Beryl. But Lance was calling, Beatrice was calling, and Nurse was at the door.

“Goodbye, children,” called Mamma. “I shall follow you in half an hour.”

“Don’t be later, or you will miss the minuet,” said Lance.

“I won’t be late, I want to see it very much,” said Mamma.

“Those rosettes are all right, Beryl,” said Lance, as they walked along the road; “but I like the red and white one best, so you can have the blue and white one.”

Beryl smiled, but she could not talk about rosettes, she was thinking too much about the dancing lesson.

On the steps of the house at which the class was held, the children saw a little girl and her nurse waiting, and as they ran up the steps they heard the nurse say—

“It is no use, Miss Joan. If I went back at once I couldn’t be here in time, and it is really your own fault. You would carry them yourself.”

Joan, poor Joan, was looking the picture of misery. The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she was sobbing.

“What is the matter?” asked Beryl.

“Hullo, Joan!” cried Lance.

“Don’t cry,” said Beatrice.

But Joan was quite unable to stop crying, or to explain the cause of her trouble.

“She’s lost one of her slippers on the way here,” said her nurse. “She would carry them herself.”

“Lost a slipper!” cried Beryl. “Why, she can’t dance in her boots—and the minuet!”

“Yes, she keeps talking about some minuet,” said the nurse; “but I don’t know what it all means.”

“Why, today,” began Beryl—

But at that moment the door was opened.

“Look here, Joan,” whispered Lance, “I will run back and look for your slipper, I will run all the way. You must dance in the minuet—your mother wants to see you, and I want you to dance with me.”

“And your mamma is coming to see you, Master Lance,” said Nurse, “you must not miss your lesson. No, I will go back. Of course, if I find the slipper, I may be back again very quickly, and if I am not back, Miss Joan must sit and watch,” and Joan’s nurse hurried away.

Beryl looked down at her own slippers, which Nurse had just fastened on her feet.

“I expect my slippers would fit Joan,” she said thoughtfully.

“And what would you do, Miss Beryl?” said Nurse. “You must not miss your lesson, you know. Perhaps Mrs. Barter could lend a pair of slippers.”

“I’ll run and ask her,” said Beryl, and she hurried out of the room in search of the lady of the house.

“Bessie Barter’s shoes would be too small for me,” murmured Joan.

“Now, Master Lance, put on your shoes,” said Nurse, “I must be getting back.”

“And mamma will fetch us home today,” said Beatrice, “she is coming to see the minuet. Joan, you won’t be able to dance. I wonder, oh, I wonder—”

But Joan’s tears began to fall anew. At that moment Mrs. Barter entered the room, holding Beryl by the hand.

“It is a pity about your slippers, Joan,” she said, “but never mind, you shall sit by me and watch the others if Nurse does not find your lost slipper. Is everyone ready? I hear Mr. Gerridge’s violin. Why, Lance, what is the matter?”

Lance had dropped his own shoes upon the ground, and was staring at the bag.

“Here is a pair of slippers in my bag,” he said. “How did they get there?”

“A pair of slippers?” said Mrs. Barter.

“In your bag?” said Nurse.

Lance took the slippers out of the bag, and held them up in the air.

“They are only an old pair,” said Beryl, “no good to anyone, I should think, though I believe they would fit me.”

“Let me try them on. Perhaps they would fit me,” said Joan.

But Beatrice ran up, and looked at the slippers carefully.

“I believe they are the ones I found in the lane, Beryl,” she said.

“And you put them in my bag,” Lance.

“I don’t remember putting them in your bag,” said Beatrice.

“Well, we must throw them away,” said Nurse. “They are of no use, they are too old to wear, and if you found them in the lane they must be thrown away.”

“Come, children,” said Mrs. Barter, “we must not waste any more time. Come, Joan.”

Mrs. Barter took the little girl’s hand, and led the way to the dancing-room. Joan blinked and winked, but she could not keep the tears back. She danced very prettily, and when at the lesson the master had announced that the two best dancers should dance a minuet for the benefit of the visitors, Joan had quite decided in her own mind that she would be one of the chosen ones.

The children followed Mrs. Barter and Joan, but Beryl looked very solemn. She was sorry for Joan, very sorry; and yet she could not help feeling pleased, for if Joan were not dancing, she would have a greater chance of being chosen to dance the minuet.

“Good afternoon, young ladies and gentlemen,” said the master.

“Good afternoon,” said the children.

And the lesson began.

“I shall watch the young ladies and gentlemen very carefully,” said Mr. Gerridge, “so that I may choose the two best dancers.”

He watched the long line closely for some time, and then he said—

“But where is Miss Joan? Why, young lady, why are you not dancing?”

Mrs. Barter explained what had happened, and Joan hung down her head and looked more miserable than ever.

Beryl could not bear it any longer, she stepped forward.

“Please, Mr. Gerridge,” she said, “must we dance the minuet today? May we not wait until next time?”

Mr. Gerridge looked at Mrs. Barter, and Joan raised her head quickly.

“I am afraid we must not do that, Beryl,” she said, “though it is kind of you to suggest it. But I have told my friends that the minuet will be danced today, and, besides, it would not be fair to those who have practised, and who expect it to be danced this week.”

“Then, once more, young ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Gerridge, beginning to play again. “One, two, three Mind your steps.”

“How well Beryl is dancing!” thought Lance.

“Capital, Miss Beryl, capital!” said Mr. Gerridge at the same moment. “You have been practising, it is easy to see that. Capital! capital!”

And Beryl, pleased with the praise, danced better than ever, thinking how pleased mamma would be.

“Two minutes to rest,” said Mr. Gerridge, when the children had danced several times round the room.

Beryl ran to Mrs. Barter, and whispered something to her. Then Joan, Beryl, and Mrs. Barter hastily left the room.

Presently, when Mr. Gerridge gave the signal for the children to take their places, Joan smiling, and looking very pleased, joined the class.

“Her slippers have come,” whispered Lance to the boy next to him.

“We shall have time to practise the minuet once through before the visitors come,” said Mr. Gerridge.

The children all took their places, and the music began.

“Very good, Miss Joan,” said Mr. Gerridge. “Very good, Miss Beryl. Never have I seen you dance so well, you have practised well. Ah! practise can do anything.”

“Go it, Beryl,” whispered Lance, as she passed him.

Then the door opened, and two or three ladies were shown into the room. Lance smiled, Beryl smiled, and Beatrice, forgetting all about the dancing lesson, clapped her hands, for one of the ladies was “Mamma.”

“Order, order, young ladies,” said Mr. Gerridge, “go on with your dancing.”

Joan was certainly dancing as well as usual. But Beryl— Was it all the practising, or had something happened to her feet? They moved so smoothly, so easily, and in such correct time.

The children were astonished, Mr. Gerridge surprised, and “Mamma”—well, of course, mamma was delighted.

When the time came for the minuet, Mr. Gerridge decided that it must be a minuet for four instead of two, and that both Beryl and Joan must dance.

Then at the end of the lesson, Mr. Gerridge had an especial word of praise for Beryl.

“Really, young lady,” he said, “you have improved wonderfully. Is there anything strange about your shoes? I fancy they must be new.”

Beryl smiled, and looked at Mrs. Barter. “They are very old shoes,” said Mrs. Barter, “and not her own shoes. Beryl very kindly lent her shoes to Joan.”

“Not the old shoes,” said Beatrice, “not the ones I found in the lane—the ones that would not fit me?”

“The old ones that came in Lance’s bag,” said Beryl.

Everyone turned and looked at Beryl’s feet, and then a strange thing happened. A china figure which stood at the end of the mantel piece fell to the floor with a crash.

In a moment there was confusion. Some of the children screamed, and everyone began to talk at the same moment.

“Perhaps it was the wind,” said someone. “Or a cat,” said someone else. “I thought I saw a black cat.”

And as nobody had been standing near that end of the mantelpiece, there was no other explanation.

“Very queer,” said Mrs. Barter.

But something queerer happened later.

When the three children—Beryl, Beatrice, and Lance—reached home, the old slippers had disappeared from the bag.

“I’m sure I put them in,” said Lance.

“You mean, you are sure you meant to put them in,” said Nurse. “You can’t have put them in, for they are not here.”

“We shall find them at Mrs. Barter’s,” said Beryl, “and I shall not forget to ask for them, for they were so comfortable. I danced so easily in them.”

But the slippers were not at Mrs. Barter’s.

VII

A Mysterious Voice
and a Magic Rhyme

Tuppy felt about as miserable as a fairy can feel.

She hobbled up the hill to the cottage, groaning and grumbling all the way.

“I don’t know what to think, and I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what Tue will say,” she sighed.

But when she reached the cottage, Tue was not there.

“Oh, the dirt, the dirt!” sighed Tuppy. “Why do mortals live in houses when there are beautiful woods? Well, I suppose I shall have to live for the rest of my life in a house. I shall never be able to go back to Fairyland any more, never go back to Fairyland.”

“Never go back to Fairyland,” repeated a voice.

Tuppy jumped. Was there somebody in the cottage? She searched every corner, she looked up the chimney. There was nobody to be seen, but Tuppy began to feel more cheerful.

“Are you a fairy?” she asked as she walked to the open door.

“A fairy,” repeated the voice.

Tuppy looked about the garden. She peeped into every flower, and searched under every leaf, but she could find nothing.

“Have you come to help?” she asked.

“To help,” repeated the voice.

“What are we to do?” said Tuppy.

“Do,” answered the voice.

“Do you know that Cinderella’s slippers are lost 7” said Tuppy.

“Cinderella’s slippers are lost,” said the voice.

“And I can’t go back without them,” said Tuppy.

“Go back without them,” said the voice.

“But I dare not go back to Fairyland without the slippers,” said Tuppy.

“Go back to Fairyland without the slippers,” said the voice.

“I dare not,” said Tuppy, “the Queen will be so angry.”

“So angry,” repeated the voice.

Tuppy was beginning to feel impatient.

“Will you only repeat what I say?” she asked.

“Repeat what I say,” said the voice.

“I will repeat what you say if you will tell me what to say,” said Tuppy.

“Tell me what to say,” said the voice.

“That is nonsense,” cried Tuppy.

“Nonsense,” said the voice.

“You will tell me nothing,” said Tuppy.

“Nothing,” said the voice.

Tuppy went into the cottage, slammed the door, threw herself down on the floor, and began to cry.

There was a loud shout of “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!” and then the mysterious voice was silent.

Tuppy sobbed and sobbed. She felt more miserable than ever.

Then she heard Tue’s voice, and, looking up, found that Tue was standing beside her. Tue seemed unhappy too, for she was speaking very crossly.

“It is a good thing I can get in through the keyhole,” she said. “I might knock and knock until the door tumbled down, and you would take no notice.”

Tuppy did not answer; she knew Tue would not be cross very long.

Tue began to see that something serious had happened.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Matter?” said Tuppy. “Cinderella’s slippers are lost.”

“Not really,” said Tue, “you don’t really mean it, Tuppy? They can’t be lost!”

“But they are,” said Tuppy, “the children have not got them—I have not got them.”

“But Beatrice must have them,” said Tue. “We know Beatrice has them.”

“Beatrice has not got them,” said Tuppy. “I heard Beatrice tell her nurse some story about a cat taking them.”

“That is nonsense,” said Tue.

“Well, I heard the children asking about the shoes,” said Tuppy. “Beryl seemed most anxious to find them, though why she should want them I can’t think; they would not be useful to her. Anyhow, they are lost, and what we are to do—”

“Do?” said Tue. “We must find them. If we make up our minds that we will find them, of course we shall find them.”

A bird outside in the garden began to sing beautifully.

“That is a pretty song,” said Tue. “What bird is that?”

“Some bird that will mock you,” said Tuppy. “Before you came I heard a mysterious voice.”

“A fairy’s voice,” said Tue.

“It was no fairy’s voice,” said Tuppy, “it only mocked me, and repeated what I said.”

“Perhaps it was Fairy Echo,” said Tue.

Tuppy picked herself up from the floor and ran to the door.

“Are you there?” she asked.

There was no answer. “Are you a fairy?” she said. Still no answer.

“There, Tue, it cannot have been Fairy Echo,” she said. “She would answer me now.”

Tue nodded her head slowly.

“I must think,” she said.

“Oh! if you are going to think, I may as well go out for a walk,” said Tuppy crossly. “It takes you so long to think. What have you been doing all the morning?”

Tue sighed.

“Only getting into trouble,” she said. “You know that boy they call Bob?”

“The fat, rosy-cheeked boy,” said Tuppy, “who laughed at Hop-o’-my-Thumb’s boots?”

“Yes, that boy,” said Tue. “Well, I found him sighing and groaning over his lessons this morning, so I thought if I helped him, perhaps he might feel more kindly towards me, and I gave him the Cap of Knowledge.”

“Well,” said Tuppy, “what happened?”

“At first he laughed, and called it a silly old cap,” said Tue. “He wouldn’t put it on for some time; but when I told him that if he wore it he would know all his lessons without learning them, he said he would try it, and he marched off to school.”

“And did he get a prize?” asked Tuppy.

Tue shook her head sadly. “I peeped through the schoolhouse window,” she said, “and I saw that boy scolded and punished for not knowing his lessons. Then when he came out of school he scolded and abused me, and threw the cap at me.”

“The Queen is right,” said Tuppy, “the world has changed; the children are treated more kindly and sensibly than they used to be, but kindness has made them bad and wicked and lazy.”

“They can’t all be bad,” said Tue. “I won’t believe that.”

The bird out in the garden began to sing again.

“I must find out what bird that is,” said Tue, and she ran to the door.

“I suppose you brought the cap back?” said Tuppy.

Tue took her hand from the latch.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “here is the cap in—my—” and then she gave a scream. “Tuppy, Tuppy,” she cried, “the Cap of Knowledge! I put it in my pocket, I must have dropped it. I will go back. Perhaps the boy has stolen it!”

Tue looked so white and miserable, so full of trouble, that Tuppy ran to her and put her arms round her—she thought she would fall.

“Tue, darling Tue!” she said, “never mind. I have lost the slippers, and you have lost the cap; but we are still together, and if we may not go back to Fairyland we will never, never leave one another.”

And strange to say, the bird in the garden was singing the most glorious and wonderful song; but Tuppy and Tue were trying to comfort and console one another.

At length Tue dried her eyes, and giving Tuppy a kiss, said in a very determined voice:

“Now, Tuppy, I must think.”

Tuppy walked across the room to the big cupboard, took down the tall thinking-cap, and put it on Tue.

It was such a big cap that it covered Tue from head to foot, and hid her completely.

Tuppy sat down on the floor in front of the cap, and waited patiently.

Presently there was a droning noise inside the cap, and Tue’s voice was heard murmuring:

“One, two, three,

It’s plain as plain can be.

Four, five, six,

That we are in a fix.

Seven, eight, nine, ten—”

“I don’t think that is any good, Tue,” said Tuppy, “try counting backwards.”

Tue waited a minute, and then began again in the same droning, sleepy voice:

“Ten, nine, eight,

With patience we must wait.

Seven, six, five,

The wicked will not always thrive.

Four, three, two, one,

Something, clearly, must be done.”

“Of course,” said Tue, bobbing her head from beneath the cap, then she crawled out and began to skip up and down the room. “I only wonder we didn’t think of it before.”

“Well, what are we to do?” said Tuppy.

“It is quite evident that some enemy is trying to upset our plans and do us harm,” said Tue.

“Of course,” said Tuppy, “but remember seven, six, five. We may be able to find a way of stopping it.”

“I wonder who the wicked person is,” said Tue.

“It doesn’t seem to me that it matters much who it is,” said Tuppy, “we must find out some way of stopping it.”

“Of course, the cap and slippers have been stolen,” said Tuppy.

“And the mysterious voice,” said Tue, “that doesn’t worry you any longer, I hope?”

“We understand it all,” said Tuppy.

“Not quite all,” said Tue, “but what shall we do?”

“We must draw up a plan,” said Tuppy.

“And carry it out,” said Tue.

So Tuppy fetched a large piece of paper, and she and Tue set to work.

“Of course, we must use the gifts we have left, and take care of them, too,” said Tue.

“Yes, indeed,” said Tuppy, “they shan’t be stolen.”

“Then fetch all the gifts,” said Tue, “lay them on the paper, and then we’ll carry them out into the garden.”

Tuppy fetched the bundle from the corner in which it lay, and began to unfasten it.

“Let me see, the Sports tomorrow afternoon,” said Tuppy. “Now then, we shall—”

“Well,” said Tue, “what is the matter?”

Tuppy threw open the bundle wide. There was nothing in it.

All the gifts were stolen!

Tuppy looked at Tue; but neither of them sighed the tiniest sigh, or screamed the smallest scream.

Tue walked to the door, and opened it.

“I must find out what bird that is,” she said.

Tuppy followed her, and pointed to a bird perched on a bough in a tree.

“A beautiful blue bird,” said Tue. “I expect, a fairy bird. If we wait quietly, perhaps it will sing again. We must listen to what it says.”

The beautiful blue bird fluttered its wings, and chirped three little soft chirps.

“The sun is setting,” said Tuppy. “If it does not sing soon it will not sing at all.”

“Listen!” said Tue.

The bird was beginning once more its wonderful song.

And Tuppy and Tue listened.

Though the bird’s song sounded only like a number of marvellously beautiful trills, and chirrups, and tweets, Tuppy and Tue understood it, and they looked at each other and nodded and smiled.

But the sun was sinking slowly and steadily, and the sun could not wait for any bird’s song.

“Faster, faster, sing faster,” whispered Tuppy.

But it was no good. Before the song was ended the sun had set, and as soon as the sun disappeared, the bird stopped singing.

“What a pity!” said Tuppy, “but perhaps the bird is able to speak.”

“Let us try,” said Tue.

At that moment a big black cat ran quickly across the garden, and the beautiful blue bird flew away.

“Never mind,” said Tue, “let us say together the part of the song we heard. It will help us—I know it will help us—for the bird is a fairy bird.”

They joined hands, and said together solemnly and slowly:

“There’s a wonderful cave not far away,

Where dwells a fairy wise and old;

And the lessons she teaches, so they say,

Are of greater value than gold.

If you would learn from her, go, get you hence

Her name is—”

“And then the sun set,” said Tue

“What a pity!” said Tuppy.

“Never mind,” said Tue, “we will find out the name—I will think of the name—and then we will start out to seek the cave.”

VIII

The Spirit of Mischief

All the morning, up in the big house, Lance and Beryl had been at work, getting ready for the Sports; but the harder they worked the more there seemed to be done. Never before had they found it so difficult to get through work of any kind; it really almost seemed, as Lance said, as if all the things were bewitched. All the morning Beatrice watched the clouds chasing one another in the sky. Was it going to rain?

But by twelve o’clock Lance and Beryl had overcome most of their difficulties, and by twelve o’clock the sun had managed to find its way through the clouds and was shining brightly.

All the morning in the village, the children were busy finishing their work, so as to be ready for the fun in the afternoon; but in nearly every cottage and every house there was trouble and worry.

At the farm, Jack Prince’s eggs, which he intended using in the Egg-and-Spoon Race, had turned a bright golden-yellow, and he had dyed them with great care the night before—dyed them red, too, he said. What had happened nobody could explain.

Betty Prince, Jack’s sister, did not try to explain the change in colour, she was so unhappy about her own face, which smarted badly. She had washed it in some water she had found in her room in a bottle labelled “Water of Beauty”; and though Jack bothered everyone about his eggs, she had to bear her trouble in silence, for she did not like to confess how silly she had been.

At Doctor Barter’s, Bessie was frowning and feeling very cross. She had found an old spinning-wheel covered with straw in a corner of the barn, and in pulling the straw away from the spindle she had scratched her hand badly; so badly, that she knew she would not be able to hold a spoon, and pick up potatoes in the Potato Race.

Everywhere in every house there was bother and trouble. The spirit of mischief was abroad, and the fairies were in trouble, too.

Tue had spent the morning in the thinking-cap, trying to think out the fairy’s name; but although she had counted forwards and backwards, and Tuppy had tried everything she knew to help her, they had been quite unable to guess the end of the bird’s song.

“We must wait,” said Tue, at last tired out, crawling out of the cap, “until the blue bird sings again.”

“The enemy is too strong for us,” said Tuppy.

“Come and sit in the garden,” said Tue. “Perhaps we shall see the blue bird.”

No blue bird was to be seen, but the sun was shining on the white tents in the park and on the children gathered round the tents.

“The Sports,” said Tuppy sadly.

“The Birthday Party,” said Tue. “Well, if the blue bird does not come, we will go down to the village and see what is happening.”

“I never wish,” said Tuppy, “never, never wish to see or talk to any children, any—” and then she stopped.

A large magpie had perched itself on a big stone opposite the gate.

“I hate magpies,” said Tuppy. “There is no peace even in the garden. Come indoors, Tue.”

Tuppy led the way, and Tue followed.

“Give me the cap, and let me try once more,” said Tue.

“It is no use,” said Tuppy. “I am quite tired out with thinking. I am going to rest.”

Tuppy lay down on the floor, and was soon fast asleep.

Tue lifted the cap and was about to put it over her head, when a bird flew past the window.

“The blue bird, the blue bird!” she cried, and dropping the cap, she ran to the door and opened it gently.

A blue bird was sitting on the stone, but it was not the blue singing-bird. It was a parrot.

“This is curious,” said Tue, and she crept softly out into the garden and hid behind a bush. “A magpie and a blue parrot. I will watch and wait. Something must be going to happen.”

The parrot perched itself on the stone.

Presently Tue could hear children’s voices.

“On their way to the Sports,” thought Tue. “Now will the parrot fly away? Will it be frightened of the children?”

The children began to speak to the parrot as soon as they saw it on the stone.

“Pretty Poll!” called one of the children.

“Does the parrot belong to the old ladies?” said one of the boys.

“The silly old ladies,” said the parrot.

The children laughed.

“There you are quite right,” said one of the children. “They are silly old ladies.”

“The silly old ladies, Tuppy and Tue,” said the parrot.

Tue had hard work to prevent herself from calling out.

“I must fetch Tuppy,” she said, and she crept back into the house.

But one of the children heard the latch of the door fall, and in a moment the children were running down the hill, and the blue parrot had flown away.

“Tuppy!” called Tue, “Tuppy!”

Tuppy was so fast asleep that she was awakened with difficulty.

“Tuppy, there is an enemy, and a powerful enemy,” said Tue, giving Tuppy a shake to bring her to her senses.

“What is the matter?” said Tuppy. “I thought I was back in Fairyland, and the Queen—”

“Tuppy, wake up!” cried Tue, “we must be up and doing. We must go to the Sports to defend ourselves.”

Then she told Tuppy what she had heard the parrot saying to the children.

Tuppy was wide awake in a moment, and as eager as Tue to set out.

Together they hurried down the garden into the road, and as they went down the hill they heard a loud bang. The Sports had begun.

“Dear, dear!” said Tuppy, “what is that?”

“We shall see,” said Tue. “We must see everything; but at first we must not be seen. Let us fly into one of the trees, and watch, and wait, and listen.”

They flew to a group of big beech trees, and hid themselves in the branches of one of them. A number of excited children were gathered beneath the trees talking eagerly—an anxious discussion was taking place.

“It doesn’t matter what colour the eggs—” said Jack Prince.

“The colour of the eggs does not matter a bit,” said Bob, “but this matters.” And he took one of Jack’s yellow eggs and threw it upon the ground. “I thought as much, it isn’t an egg at all.”

“Perhaps it is hard boiled,” said Bessie Barter.

“That would not be fair,” said Bob, “and besides,” and he picked the egg up, “the shell is quite hard.”

There were many murmurs of disapproval.

“Tweet, tweet,” said the bird in the tree. It was Tuppy, and she was saying—

“Are those the Golden Eggs, Tue?”

Jack Prince took another yellow egg out of his pocket and knocked it hard against a stone, but the outside shell showed no sign of breaking.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t understand it.”

“He didn’t mean to cheat,” said Lance.

“Of course not,” said Beryl.

“Of course not,” said Joan, “Jack would not cheat.”

“Of course not,” said several children.

But all of them were not satisfied.

“Well, he can’t have the first prize,” said Bob.

“I didn’t drop my egg,” said Jack indignantly, “and I came in first.”

“I ought to have the prize,” said another boy, “I came in second, and my eggs are ordinary eggs.”

“You?” said Lance. “Why, you didn’t go in for the race at all. You went to fetch your coat, and then, as you didn’t come back, we had to start the race without you.”

The boy stared at him.

“I was in the race,” he said, “I was only a few steps behind Jack Prince. I couldn’t find my own coat, but I found this one, and I wore it.” And he pointed to the coat he was carrying on his arm.

The boys began to laugh.

“You are poking fun at us,” said Jack Prince. “You were not in the race at all.”

And though the boy in the shirt-sleeves protested, they would not listen to him.

“Tuppy,” said Tue, “do you see that coat?”

“Tue,” exclaimed Tuppy, “it can’t be the—”

“It is,” said Tue, “it is the Invisible Coat, and the children don’t know it.”

“We had better explain it all to them,” said Tuppy, “and try to get them to return the gifts. They must have stolen them.”

“Wait,” said Tue. “Listen, we may learn more.”

“Well,” said Lance, “we must wait until Father comes.”

“I can’t think what he and Mamma are doing,” said Beryl; “they promised to be the judges. I wish we had waited for them, Lance.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lance, “we will have the Egg-and-Spoon race again when they come.”

“And I will find my own coat,” said the boy in the shirt-sleeves.

“I wish I knew where these yellow eggs came from,” said Jack Prince.

“Of course, you can guess who sent them to you,

Those wicked old ladies, Tuppy and Tue,”

said a voice.

Jack turned round quickly. The blue parrot was sitting on a branch of the tree above his head.

“We will have the Bicycle Race,” said Lance.

“I want to see that,” said Tuppy.

Jack was staring up at the tree, but the parrot had flown away.

“Why is he looking up into that tree?” said Tue.

“Look, look!” said Tuppy. “What queer things! Will they ride on the wheels?”

“It looks very dangerous,” said Tue. “Oh, Tuppy, do you think those terrible things have been given to the children by the enemy? They will hurt themselves.”

“I shouldn’t mind if some of them did hurt themselves,” said Tuppy.

Then there was a loud bang, and the racers started.

“Look, look!” said Tuppy. “Lance, the boy with the red-and-white rosette, has the Shoes of Swiftness.”

“They will hurt themselves,” said Tue. “Look at the girls, they will fall and hurt themselves. Come quickly, we must stop them—we must stop them.”

The birds disappeared from the tree, and a little old lady ran from beneath it into the middle of the path along which the bicycles were coming, and began to wave her arms wildly.

“Out of the way, ma’am, out of the way!” shouted the children.

“Ting, ting,” sounded the bells.

“Hurrah! Lance will win. Out of the way, out of the way! You’ll be hurt.”

The children shouted, but the old lady did not move.

“Ting, ting, ting, ting.”

Once more the bells sounded, for two of the bicycles were close to the old lady, and instead of moving out of their path, she threw up her hands and screamed “Stop! stop!” Beryl ran forward, seized hold of her, and dragged her onto the grass.

The old lady was not hurt, but the race was spoiled, and the riders jumped off their bicycles and gathered round the old lady.

“Why did you not get out of the way?” cried Lance indignantly.

“If Beryl had not pulled you away, you would have been badly hurt,” said Betty Prince.

Then all the children began to speak at once, scolding the old lady. She was too much overcome to speak herself, but another old lady pushed her way through the crowd and began to speak for her.

“You are wicked, ungrateful children—you steal our treasures!”

“What treasures?” said Lance.

“Steal?” cried Joan.

“We did not steal,” said several of the children, and they turned upon the second old lady, leaving Beryl to comfort and soothe the one she had rescued.

“What treasures?” said Tuppy angrily—for, of course, it was Tuppy. “Why, those Eggs, those Shoes, that Coat, that Cap—”

But she was stopped by indignant shouts from the children.

“Treasures—you call them treasures?” cried Bob.

“You stole my eggs, and left me these horrible yellow ones,” cried Jack Prince.

“You have spoiled all our fun,” cried Bessie Barter.

“Yes, drive them out of the park,” cried Lance, “they are interfering old ladies.”

“Yes,” cried several of the children, “drive them out of the park—out of the village Spoiling our fun, and talking such nonsense about treasures!”

And the old ladies would have been hustled and perhaps hurt, for the children were very angry, if Beryl had not quickly stepped in front of them and held out her arms to protect them. “Lance—Jack—Lance,” she cried, “they are our guests. Remember, you invited them to the Sports.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Beryl turned and whispered—“Go quickly.”

Then the noise began again.

“Give us our treasures,” said Tuppy.

“Go!” shouted the children.

“Yes, you must go,” said Beryl, and she took an arm of each old lady. “You must go,” she said, and she led them away to the park gates.

“There,” she said, “go home. Mamma will come and see you tomorrow.”

“They must be out of their minds,” said Lance, as he watched them go down the path with Beryl.

“Poor old ladies!” said Joan.

“They are mischief-makers,” said Jack Prince.

“Meddlesome old ladies,” said Bob.

Tuppy and Tue climbed the hill to the cottage sadly and silently. But at the cottage door Tue stopped and smiled.

“Tuppy,” she said, “we must find the fairy’s cave at once. The fairy’s name is Fairy Experience—I am sure of it.”

But Tuppy could not be cheered.

“We shall never find it,” she said.

“There’s a wonderful cave—”

It was the blue bird singing. “We will follow the blue bird,” said Tue.

And as the blue bird flew down the road, Tuppy and Tue, once more birds, followed it.

IX

The Wonderful Cave

The blue bird flew swiftly over fields and roads, and Tuppy and Tue flew after it.

At last it came to two paths. One led to a road which ran beside a lake, and the other to a dark, gloomy wood.

There were birds swimming on the lake in the sunshine, and water-lilies floating on the smooth water; but the wood was thick and dark—so dark, that it was impossible to see far into it.

“I know which path I should choose,” said Tuppy.

The blue bird flew straight to the wood. Tue followed, but Tuppy dropped on the bough of a tree and looked longingly at the lake, and the sunshine, and the butterflies chasing one another.

“Come,” called Tue. Tuppy hesitated.

“That is a beautiful lake,” said a voice beside her, “and there are the most delicious flies.” Tuppy looked up at the bird on the branch above her. It was a magpie.

Tuppy hesitated no longer; she flew out of the sunshine into the dark wood. It was the darkest wood Tuppy had ever been in, and at first she was not astonished that she could see neither Tue nor the blue bird; but as the wood became darker and darker, and thicker and thicker, Tuppy began to feel frightened. She fluttered from tree to tree, looking for Tue first in one direction and then in another, and at last dropped on the ground, tired out.

“Now, then, look where you are coming,” said a voice.

“I beg your pardon,” said Tuppy, “but I thought you were a piece of wood.”

“That only shows how stupid you are,” said the bird—for it was a bird; it was a nightjar, and really, as it sat on the ground, it did not look at all unlike a piece of wood.

“Where are you going?” asked the nightjar, after a minute or two, when she found that Tuppy did not speak.

“Have you seen a blue bird?” asked Tuppy.

“Not I,” said the nightjar.

“Then I must ask farther on in the wood,” said Tue.

“Where do you want to go?” said the nightjar. “You might answer a civil question.”

“I want to find a cave,” said Tuppy, “the blue bird was taking me there.”

“A cave,” said the nightjar. “Well, if I wanted a cave, I should ask the old bat. He knows every cave in this wood.”

“And where can I find the bat?” asked Tuppy.

“He’ll come out a little later,” said the nightjar, “though he may be out now. In this wood it isn’t easy to tell day from night.”

The nightjar rose from the ground and flew through the trees, calling loudly as it flew—

“Jarr—arra—arra—de—de. Jarr—arra—arra—de-de.”

“‘Ask the bat,’” said Tuppy. “Well, now I must find the bat.”

“I can tell you where you’ll find the bat,” said an old spider, in a very grumpy voice.

“Thank you,” said Tuppy, hopping to wards the spider.

“Stay where you are, stay where you are!” said the spider. “I happen to know you are a fairy, or I would have nothing to do with you.”

“How do you know I am a fairy?” said Tuppy.

“Spiders know everything,” said the spider. “Now listen to me. Fly straight ahead until you come to my cousin’s web, then turn to the right and fly on once more, past my uncle’s second wife’s sister’s, until you come to my great-aunt’s; then step inside, and she will tell you where the bat lives, where the blue bird has flown, where the cave is to be found, and what a silly fairy you are. Good afternoon—I see a very fine large fly coming to call.”

“Thank you very much,” said Tuppy, “but how shall I know—?”

The spider only replied, “Good afternoon—a very fine fly.”

“Well,” said Tuppy, “I must do the best I can. Anyhow, I can fly straight ahead.”

Tuppy set out on her journey. The wood did not seem quite so dark and black as before, and she felt more cheerful. She flew very swiftly, so swiftly that she almost flew into a big spider’s web; but the big spider did not seem angry.

“Turn to the right,” he said, “and fly more quickly, or you will be too late.”

“That must be the cousin,” said Tuppy, and away she flew.

Once more a spider’s voice greeted her.

“Speed, speed, no time to lose—the sun will be set, the bat will be out, and all birds must go to rest.”

“And that is the uncle’s second wife’s sister,” said Tuppy, and she hurried on until at last she came to a very large web at the entrance to a dark hole.

“The bat lives in the dark hole, I expect,” she said to herself. “Now, shall I go straight in and look for the bat, or shall I—”

She hesitated a minute, then she turned away from the hole and flew up to the web.

The spider’s great-aunt was at home.

“And a good thing too,” said the spider, a very big fat spider too. “You want the Cave of Experience. Then never mind the bat, I can tell you where it is, if you will follow me.”

And the spider swung herself through the air, caught hold of a leaf some distance away, let herself down to the ground, crawled along the ground, climbed up a twig, swung herself once more through the air, and then with a triumphant “There you are,” pointed to a very thick clump of trees.

“Quick, quick,” she said, “no time to waste. Tue is there, the blue bird has gone, and the fairy is at home.”

“Thank you so much,” said Tuppy. “I should never—”

“Go,” said the spider. “You don’t seem to have learned much, after all. Go!”

Tuppy made her way through the trees, and found herself quite suddenly in a large cave.

At first it was so dark that she could not distinguish anything, then someone touched her gently, and, no longer a bird but once more an old lady, she found herself sitting by Tue.

She was about to speak, and ask questions, but Tue raised one hand and put it on her lips, and with the other pointed to the far end of the cave.

It suddenly became quite light and bright, and three figures appeared in the brightness.

The figures moved, it was a living picture; the figures changed, other figures appeared. No sound was uttered, but it was easy to understand what was happening, and who they were.

It was the old story of Cinderella. Cinderella miserable, ill-treated, beaten, scolded, and abused by her sisters; but through it all, Cinderella patient, helping her sisters in spite of their crossness, and working hard. Then there was darkness.

Tuppy pinched Tue’s arm and opened her lips to speak, but Tue once more put her finger on her lips to command silence.

Once more the bright light, and this time no Cinderella was seen, but a little girl before a looking-glass, shaking her curls, smoothing her frock, admiring herself—a vain, conceited little girl. It was Beatrice—Tuppy and Tue both recognised her at once.

Darkness again, and then a marvellous picture of nothing but cats. Cats sleeping, cats eating, cats jumping, good cats and bad cats; for there were cats stealing, and cats getting into all kinds of mischief.

Tuppy and Tue stared in astonishment, then at last, when all the cats had disappeared, and there was once more darkness, a voice was heard.

“Learn your lesson, silly fairies,” said the voice. “Now go, and undo the bad work you have done. Go, start afresh.”

Tuppy did not move, she was so frightened; but Tue seized her hand, pulled her up, and dragged her out of the cave.

The sun had set, and the wood would have been darker than ever, but glow-worms lighted a path, and along the path Tuppy and Tue walked hand in hand.

Not a word did they speak until they were out of the wood. Tuppy was far too bewildered by the lights and the figures, and Tue was thinking.

The way out of the wood was quite easy to find, and they were soon back again in the road.

The sun had set, but the moon was rising, and stars were beginning to peep out, one after the other.

Tuppy and Tue seated themselves on a big stone by the roadside.

Tuppy rubbed her eyes, and Tue sighed; then Tuppy sighed, but neither of them spoke.

How long they would have sat side by side without speaking if nothing had happened, nobody knows; but something did happen.

A shower of falling stars lit up the sky, and then suddenly a little man with a very small body, and a big round face, appeared in the moonlight before them.

“Good evening,” he said, “I thought you looked unhappy. I know the others are miserable, so I caught a few falling stars, fastened them to Charles Wain, jumped inside, and here I am!”

“Good evening,” said Tue.

“Good evening,” said Tuppy.

At last the spell was broken, and they seemed able to speak.

The little man bowed gracefully to each fairy in turn.

“Tuppy, I believe?” he said as he bowed to Tuppy; “the Man, you know,” he added, touching himself. “Tue, I understand?” he said turning to Tue; “the Man. Hey, what?”

Tuppy and Tue rose and curtseyed.

“Always,” said the little man, “always most happy to oblige a fairy.”

“Always, always,” said Tue.

“Glens lighted up at the shortest notice, beams supplied promptly,” said the little man.

“We know,” said Tuppy, “you are ever most willing, most obliging.”

“And now in a desperate, may I say terrible, situation,” said the little man, “I will not desert two fairies.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Tuppy and Tue in chorus.

“Then,” said the little man, “first of all, tell me all about everything.”

He gave a wild jump into the air, and seated himself, with his legs crossed beneath him, on a stone beside Tuppy and Tue.

But they had not recovered from the mysterious spell of the gloomy cave, and they found it difficult to speak.

“In the moon, you know—” said the little man.

“Yes?” said Tuppy, in a tone of deep interest.

“Well?” Said Tue.

“In the moon, you know,” said the little man, “we always—suppose we do now. Hey, What?”

And in a moment Tuppy and Tue found themselves joining hands with the little man, and dancing round and round, singing at the top of their voices.

They only stopped when they were quite out of breath.

“Now then, to business,” gasped the little man, and then with another marvellous jump, he seated himself cross-legged on the stone once more.

They all rested a few minutes, and then he began: “Now the question is, How much do I know? how much do you know? How much do I know that you don’t know? and how much do you know that I don’t know?”

“I should call that four questions, not one,” said Tuppy.

“Quite the right answer,” said the little man; “then let us divide our subject into four parts, and let us begin with Part I.”

“How much do you know?” asked Tue.

“Rebellion of fairies, silly things. Puss-in-Boots, the mischief-maker, fairy gifts,” said the little man.

“No use,” said Tuppy.

“Excuse me,” said the little man, “that comes under Part III. Perhaps it will save time if we go straight on to Part IV. What happened in the cave? What did you learn there?”

“Well,” said Tue, “the fairy was very, very cross.”

“She always is,” said the little man.

“She said we were very stupid and silly,” said Tue.

“So you are,” said the little man. “But don’t mind that; she tells everyone they are stupid and silly. She isn’t a very pleasant lady.”

“Then she was very, very old,” said Tue.

“She always was,” said the little man.

“At first she said she would not teach me anything,” said Tue.

“Then?” said the little man.

“She promised to show me three pictures,” said Tue.

“I saw the pictures,” said Tuppy. “It is a difficult place to find—I thought I never should get there.”

“But,” said Tue, “she made me promise not to speak, and not to ask any questions, and I don’t know what the last picture means.”

“I don’t know what any of them mean,” said Tuppy.

“Think,” said the little man. “But tell me about the last picture. What did it show?”

“Cats, cats, cats,” said Tuppy and Tue, “nothing but cats.”

“Hey, what?” cried the little man. “Excuse me one moment.”

He jumped up in the air and stood on the stone, then he seized his left foot in his hand and twisted round and round on the other foot.

Tuppy and Tue waited patiently until his wild dance was ended. It did not last long. After twirling round seven or eight times, he suddenly sat down on the stone once more with his feet tucked away beneath him.

“It is such an assistance to the brain,” he said. “Now, of course, I quite understand it all. Let us for one brief moment touch on Part III., then I think you will understand it too.”

“Very well,” said Tue, “then please tell us—how much do you know that we don’t know?”

“Once upon a time,” said the little man, “there was a dancing lesson. All kinds of things happened. This kind of thing, you know—one, two, three; one, two, three—” and the little man jumped on the stone and began practising his steps, “but that doesn’t matter,” and he sat down again suddenly. “The important point is this: A kind little girl who lent her own slippers found that she could dance beautifully in a very old pair of slippers, and that old pair of slippers—”

“Cinderella’s,” said Tue.

“Were stolen by a black cat,” said the little man. “Hey, what?”

“Cats, cats, cats,” said Tuppy, thinking of the picture she had seen.

“There are good cats and bad cats,” said the little man; “there are cats without boots, and cats with—excuse me.” The little man stopped suddenly. “Hey, what? There’s Charles’ Wain, and if I’m not quick—Dear, dear! Would you mind calling a moonbeam? Thank you.”

And in a minute the little man had clambered up the moonbeam, and was off up to the sky.

Tuppy and Tue watched until they saw his face smiling down at them out of the moon, and then they curtseyed low and kissed their hands to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Man in the Moon,” said Tuppy.

“Thank you,” cried Tue, “you have helped us very much.”

Then Tue turned to Tuppy.

“Come, Tuppy,” she said. “Now we will go back to the village; but we will work on a different plan.”

“Hey, what?” said Tuppy.

And laughing, the two danced away in the moonlight.

X

Bobelink

“Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!”

Beryl tapped at the cottage door very gently, and waited; but there was no answer. She looked back at the group of children standing at the gate, and shook her head.

“Knock louder!” called Lance.

“Hush! they will hear you,” said Beatrice.

But if they did hear, they took no notice; for there was no sign of life in the cottage.

Beryl knocked more loudly, then Lance ran up the garden path and hammered at the door, but he was unable to make anyone hear.

“The old ladies must be out,” said Bob, “and I’m glad. I don’t want to see them.”

“We shall have to wait until they come home,” said Lance. “We must see them—we promised Mamma, you know. Let us play at hide-and-seek whilst we are waiting: I’ll shut my eyes and count a hundred, and you all hide.”

The children scattered in different directions, and Lance jumped upon the low garden wall in front of the cottage, and, shutting his eyes, began to slowly count.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.”

Not a child was in sight, but a woman with a large basket on her arm was climbing the hill.

“Seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four.”

The woman was coming towards the cottage.

“Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety.”

The woman was standing opposite Lance, staring at him in wonder and amazement. Lance heard the footsteps, and thought one of the children had not found a hiding-place.

“Hide quickly!” he called. “Ninety-one, ninety-two—I’m coming directly; ninety-three, ninety-four.”

The woman did not move.

“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine.”

Then, with a wild ear-splitting shriek of “Wh-o-o-o-o-o-p!” Lance put his hand on the wall and jumped forward, right on the woman.

Over went Lance, down tumbled the woman, and away went her basket. Out rolled the goods—tapes and buttons, ribbons and laces, toys and sweets, into the road and the mud. Down, too, fell a bird’s cage, with a bird in it.

Lance shouted, the woman screamed, and the bird twittered, and in a moment from behind bushes, from over walls, from behind the cottage, children’s heads appeared.

Lance soon picked himself up, but the woman made no attempt to move; she lay still in the road, groaning, grumbling, and muttering to herself—“I knew, I knew—”

The children scrambled over walls and hedges, hurrying from their hiding-places.

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!” chirped the bird.

“My canary, my Bobelink,” groaned the poor woman.

But Joan had picked up the cage, and was talking to the bird. The other children, too, set to work to put the goods straight. They picked up the basket and replaced all the things in it. They were too frightened by the woman’s groaning to go near her at first, but after a minute or two Lance summoned up courage to bend down over her and offer her his hand.

“May I help you up?” he said politely. “I’m very sorry I knocked you down; but my eyes were shut, and I didn’t know that anyone was there.”

“Take my hand,” said Beryl.

And before the woman had time to make objections, she found herself on her feet once more.

She was not actually hurt at all, only very much shaken.

“Won’t you sit down and rest?” said Bessie Barter.

The children led her to the hedge, and made her sit down on the bank. “I wish the silly old ladies would come home,” said Lance, “then you could rest in the cottage.”

“I believe they have gone away,” said Bob. “I peeped in at the window, and the cottage is empty. There is not even a cat to be seen.”

The woman was trembling—perhaps it was the effect of the shaking and tumble.

“Well, I hope they have gone away,” said Lance.

“So do I,” said Beatrice. “We may have been rather rude, but they were very interfering.”

“Only, I wish we had told them that we didn’t mean to be unkind and rude last Saturday,” said Beryl. “We didn’t, you know.”

“Of course we didn’t,” said Lance.

“But we were rude,” said Beryl, “and after all, they did not do any real harm.”

“I would not say that,” said Bob. “It was through them that I got into such a bother at school last Friday. One of them told me that if I wore an old cap I should know my lessons, so I didn’t learn them, and then—” Bob rubbed his hands, and frowned, and shook his head.

“He never does learn his lessons,” said Joan to the canary, as she poked a bit of green stuff into the cage, “and I believe it is a very good cap. I picked it up when Bob threw it away, and I learned my lessons so easily when I wore it. I shall always wear it when I have lessons to learn.”

The canary chirped “Tweet, tweet!” but the children took no notice of Joan.

“And then look at Jack’s eggs,” said Bob.

Betty laughed.

“Well, old Bayston gave Jack a whole sixpence for one of those eggs,” she said. “He said they were—oh, I forget, some long queer name, a most remarkable—”

“Then, you see,” said Beryl, “the old ladies did not do Jack much harm.”

“They spoiled our Sports,” said Lance.

“They were interfering old ladies,” said Beatrice.

“And I hope they have gone away,” said Bob once more.

“Beryl,” said Betty, “don’t you think—” and she pointed to the woman, who was still sitting quietly on the bank, and whispered something to Beryl.

Beryl nodded, and Betty ran down the hill to the farm. She came back a few minutes later, carrying a cup of milk in her hand. Betty offered it to the woman, who drank it eagerly, but she did not even say “Thank you.”

The children waited to see if she would speak, then Beatrice proposed going home.

“The old ladies have gone away,” she said, “and if they have, we need not stay here any longer.”

“Can we carry your basket, ma’am?” said Lance.

The woman shook her head.

“Do you feel better?” asked Betty.

The woman nodded.

“Mother says she would be glad of some large black buttons,” said Betty. “If you have any, perhaps you will call at the farm.”

The woman nodded again.

The children, began to move down the hill, some walking, some skipping, some running.

“I am very sorry I knocked her down. I’m afraid I did hurt her,” said Lance.

“I think she wants to be quiet,” said Beryl, “then she will feel better.”

And as it turned out, Beryl was quite right, the woman was not really hurt.

Next day she was seen in the village, going from house to house, selling her wares; and she was busy all the week visiting the farms and cottages.

All the villagers agreed that she was queer woman. She would take no money for her goods, but was anxious to have old boots, old clothes, all kinds of queer things in ex change for her buttons and laces.

“She gave me two yards of beautiful lace for that old cap Miss Joan was wearing when she was doing her lessons,” said Joan’s nurse. “And she gave me six large buttons—black shiny buttons—for an old bottle of scented water I found in Betty’s room,” said Mrs. Prince.

But in spite of the queerness, everyone liked the woman, and before the week was out, she had made friends with many of the children. Her canary was a wonderful bird; it not only sang very beautifully but it performed numbers of tricks, and of course these delighted the children.

When they met on the village Green on Saturday afternoon, they could talk of nothing but the canary Bobelink.

“She gives Bobelink a little bit of stick,” said Lance, “and it holds it in one claw like a gun.”

“Then, when she pretends to shoot, the canary pretends to fall dead,” said Bob.

“Oh, I wish I had seen it,” said Beatrice. “Why was I out with mamma the day the woman came to our house?”

“Ask her to show you—she will,” said Joan. “She let me hold Bobelink in my hand.”

“She is very kind,” said Beryl.

“If we meet her this afternoon, I’ll ask her to let Bobelink perform the tricks,” said Lance. “She seems to have quite forgotten that I knocked her down. I met her the other day, and we had a jolly talk together.”

“Well, ask her now,” said Bob, “she is coming across the Green this very minute.”

The children ran to meet the woman, and as soon as she saw them she hastened towards them.

“Good afternoon,” called the children.

“Good afternoon,” said the woman.

“If you please—” said Beatrice.

“Would you mind?” said Beryl. “Beatrice does want so very badly to see—”

“Of course,” said the woman, laughing, “you want to see my Bobelink.”

“We all want to see the canary,” said Lance, “but Beatrice most of all, because she has never seen it.”

“If you will wait five minutes,” said the woman, “I will fetch Bobelink—she has learned some new tricks. I didn’t bring her out with me this afternoon, I left her behind for the first time, and I have been so lonely. I shall be very glad to fetch her.”

The woman hurried away.

“Where does she live?” said Bessie Barter. “Somebody said she was stopping in a cottage on the other side of the wood,” said Bob.

“I believe she is living in the cottage on the hill,” said Betty, “the tumbledown cottage the old ladies had, but I don’t know. Father said—”

“Look! there she is,” said Lance, “she has been quick.”

“She is running,” said Joan.

“Something must be wrong,” said Beryl.

Something was certainly wrong. The woman was running as fast as she could, and as she ran she called out to the children—“My Bobelink, my Bobelink!”

There was trouble in her voice, and the tears were running down her cheeks.

“My Bobelink—my Bobelink is lost!” she panted.

“Lost!” cried the children.

“I left her in her cage,” said the woman, “and now—I must not stay to talk, but I thought I must come and tell you—I must go and look for her. I must find her.”

“We will help,” said the children.

“Nobody can help me,” said the woman, “I must find her myself. It must be that horrid Puss.”

She hurried across the Green, talking to herself.

“And we were getting on so beautifully. We have found all the gifts. Oh, Tuppy, Tuppy, my dear Tuppy! if Lord Pussee Cattums has stolen you, he will carry you to the Black Witch, and then—but I will not believe you are stolen; I will find you. I must find you somewhere.”

XI

The Capture of the Boots

The poor canary was a prisoner, a hopeless, miserable prisoner.

She fluttered backwards and forwards from one side of the loft to the other, but there was no way of escape.

The door of the loft was tightly shut; there was only one small hole which served as a window, and at that window a cat’s black head was to be seen, and through that window two fierce yellow-green eyes glared and stared.

Every time the canary looked at the cat, she trembled and turned her head away; but the cat never took his eyes off the miserable bird.

“Miaow,” said the cat, when the canary dropped on the floor of the loft tired out. “Now, if you will keep still, I will talk to you.”

The poor canary was too frightened even to say “Tweet, tweet!”

“We won’t waste any time,” said the cat, “I want to get this business settled.”

The canary tried to hide itself in the corner farthest away from the window and the glaring eyes.

“You know who I am,” said the cat, “and I know who you are, and you also know that you are in my power.”

“Tweet, tweet!” said the canary pitifully.

“No,” said the cat, “I am not going away. I am not going to look away. I know too well that, as soon as I take my eyes off you, you will be a bird no longer: I shall look back to find an old lady a prisoner in this loft. You would not be nearly so much frightened of me then. I find a canary much easier to manage than an old lady.”

The canary stared at the walls of the loft and tried to speak, but she could not find her voice. Something seemed to stick in her throat.

“Now, I don’t wish to do you any harm,” said the cat, “if only you will be sensible and come to terms.”

“What are your terms, Lord Pussee Cattums?” said the trembling canary, who had at last managed to find words.

“My mistress, the Black Witch,” said Puss (the canary trembled now more than ever), “hates the Fairy Queen, and will rejoice and be pleased with me if you go back to Fairyland and say that the fairy power over mortals is lost, that the gifts are useless, that—”

“But it isn’t true,” said the canary. “We know—Tue and I have proved—that the power is great, and that the gifts—”

“Do you want to go back to Fairyland?” said Puss. “If you do—”

“Of course I want to go back,” said the canary.

“Then you must promise to say what I say, to do what I tell you,” said Lord Pussee Cattums.

“I will never say that,” said the canary.

“Then you will never go back to Fairyland,” said Puss. “You seem to have forgotten how I made my former master, the miller’s son, a marquis. Did the reapers and mowers dare to say, ‘It isn’t true, when I told them to tell the king that the land and the corn belonged to the Marquis of Carabas?”

“I know you have done wonderful things,” said the canary; “but I will never say that the fairy power is lost. The children love the fairies as much as ever. I will never say that the gifts are useless, though you stole them and tried to make them appear useless by giving them to children to whom they were of no value. I will never say it. You may chop me into mincemeat, you may eat me up, you may do your worst.”

“Then I am coming through the window to eat you up,” said Puss; “but first let me tell you, you are a silly fairy, Mistress Tuppy. If you had not been silly, you would never have quarrelled with your Queen, you would never have let me stir up mischief, you would never have let me steal your precious gifts, you would never have put yourself in my power by changing yourself into a canary. One, two, three—”

There was a thud on the roof of the loft, but the canary was so frightened that she did not notice it.

There was a second thud on the roof. The cat’s head disappeared from the window. There was a third, and a sound of voices in the field below.

The cat had vanished, the canary disappeared, and Tuppy, once more an old lady, ran to the window and peeped out.

There was a great noise down in the field. Some children were chasing a black cat.

“Then I am safe,” said Tuppy, “and the children have saved me,” and resting her head on the window-ledge, she burst into tears. She sobbed, sobbed, sobbed; for a few minutes she could do nothing but sob. Then she heard a voice calling, “If you please—if you please!”

She looked down into the field again. A small girl was looking up at the window. It was Joan.

“If you please, have you seen a canary?” called Joan.

Tuppy smiled in the midst of her tears.

“Are you looking for one, my dear?” she said.

“Yes, a friend of ours has lost her canary,” said Joan, “and we are trying to find it. All the children are looking for the canary, though our friend said we could not help her. Lance, Beryl, and Beatrice were here a moment ago; but we saw a black cat at this window, and Beryl thought she saw Bobelink, the canary, and—”

Joan stopped. The old lady had left the window.

“Well,” said Joan, “she might have answered me; but perhaps it was her black cat, and perhaps she was angry with us for chasing it. What a queer place for the old lady to live in! How did she get into the loft, I wonder? I’ll go and look, and if I can get in, I’ll speak to her.”

Joan walked to the door of the barn, and tapped.

“Joan, Joan!” she heard the children calling.

Beryl, Lance, and Beatrice were coming back.

Joan tapped once more.

“I must tell her we thought the cat was trying to catch the canary,” said Joan.

“Tweet, tweet!”

Was it a bird chirping?

Joan seemed to have heard those notes before. She left the door and looked up at the trees.

“Bobelink, Bobelink!” she called.

A canary flew out of the little window, and perched itself on Joan’s shoulder.

It was Bobelink.

Joan stood quite still, so as not to frighten the bird; then, as she heard the voices of the other children, she put her hand very gently up to her shoulder and took the canary from it.

The bird did not try to get away. It did not flutter nor struggle; it rested quietly in the little girl’s hand, and looked up at her out of its little black eyes.

“Well, we didn’t catch that black cat,” said Lance.

Then he stumbled over something, and nearly fell forwards.

“What’s this on the ground?” he said. “A pair of boots! What queer boots!”

Beryl and Beatrice came hurrying up to Joan; but they did not notice the bird, for Joan hid her hand beneath her cloak.

“Look at these boots,” said Lance. “Top-boots, too!” and he picked up the boots and held them high in the air.

“They are very small boots,” said Beatrice. “I don’t believe they would fit me. I don’t believe they would fit a cat.”

“Tweet, tweet!”

It was the canary.

“Where is that bird?” said Beryl.

Still Joan said nothing.

“I shall take these boots to our woman,” said Lance. “She likes old boots. Come along, we will take them now. It is no use looking here for Bobelink.”

“I wish we had found the canary,” said Beryl.

“And I wish I had hit that black cat when it was on that ledge,” said Lance.

“I’m glad you didn’t hit it,” said Beatrice, “the canary wasn’t near it, you see.”

“And I thought I saw the canary,” said Beryl. “Joan, what is the matter with you? Have you hurt your hand? Why don’t you walk with us?”

As they made their way across the field to the cottage, Joan was walking behind the others, and Joan was very silent.

“I’m all right,” said Joan.

“I expect we shall find the woman in the cottage looking for the canary,” said Beatrice.

“Yes, I can’t think why she is so certain that the bird is there,” said Beryl.

“Well, I’ll knock and ask if there is any news of the canary, and if she would care for these boots,” said Lance.

But as soon as they reached the cottage, the door flew open, and the woman appeared in the doorway. She was in great distress. Her eyes were swollen with crying, her hair was tumbled and untidy, as though she had been wandering, bonnetless, through briar and bush in search of the bird, and her apron and dress were torn.

“Have you seen her?” she said. “Have you found her? My Bobelink—my Bobelink!”

“Tweet, tweet!” called the bird beneath Joan’s cloak, and, as Joan opened her hand, the bird flew to the woman, and rested on her shoulder.

“Why, Joan!” cried Lance, “why didn’t you tell us?”

“Where did you find the canary?” said Beatrice.

The woman was kissing the bird, stroking it, talking to it. She was so pleased to get it back that she seemed to have forgotten that there was anything else—anyone else in the whole world.

Beatrice touched Lance’s arm, and pointed to the boots.

“Not now,” said Lance, dropping the boots on the ground.

“We are going for a short walk,” said Beryl, “we will come and see you before we go home.”

At last the woman remembered the children. “Don’t go,” she said, “come and sit down in the garden. I want to thank you, I want to hear all about it. Which of you found my Bobelink? You?” she said to Joan, as the others pushed her forward. “Then I must kiss you.”

Joan threw her arms round the woman’s neck. “I am so glad Bobelink is safe,” she whispered.

“We are all very glad,” said Lance, “but I wish Joan had told us before.”

“Was the canary in the loft?” said Beatrice.

Joan nodded.

“Then the black cat was after it,” said Lance. “I am glad we chased the black cat.”

“The black cat,” said the woman. “Oh, my darling Tuppy!” she whispered to the canary.

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!” said the canary.

The woman kissed and stroked it again.

“Thank you for saving my Bobelink from the cat,” she said, turning to Lance, and then for the first time she saw the pair of top-boots lying on the ground at Lance’s feet.

She gave a cry of delight, and the canary began to sing loudly.

“Would you like to have the boots?” said Lance. “We found them in the field—I nearly tumbled over them.”

“Of course, I should be delighted to have the boots,” cried the woman. “I don’t know how to thank you. Children, children!”

The woman was so pleased, that she did not seem to know what to say or what to do. She shook hands with Lance, she kissed Beryl and Beatrice, and once more kissed Joan. Then she began to stroke the canary again.

“My Bobelink,” she said, “we shall be able to go back now.”

“Go?” said Beryl.

“Go?” said Beatrice.

“Not away?” said Lance.

“Not take Bobelink away?” said Joan.

“Would you all be sorry if we went away?” said the woman.

“Sorry?” said the children.

“Of course!” said Lance.

“Couldn’t you live in the village always?” said Beryl.

“Then we could come to see you, and you could tell us one of your beautiful stories every day,” said Joan.

“Father would find you a better cottage than this old tumble-down one,” said Beatrice.

“Why must you go?” said Beryl.

“I must go because my work is done,” said the woman. “I must go soon—I must go tonight. I am sorry to leave you, but I long to get home. My home is—”

“Tweet, tweet!” said the canary.

“But some day you will come back?” said Joan. “Some day you will come to see us again?”

“Perhaps,” said the woman. “If my mistress will let me, I will come again, but I must do as my mistress says.”

“And you will bring the canary?” said Joan.

“I will never leave the canary again,” said the woman. “Oh, my Bobelink, my Bobelink! I thought I had lost you.”

“Well, Lance, we must go,” said Beryl.

“Don’t you think Bobelink would show us her tricks?” said Beatrice.

“Of course she will,” said the woman.

Bobelink was put through the whole of her performance. The bird sang merrily the whole time, as though she thoroughly enjoyed herself, and never had she hopped or jumped so well. There were several new tricks that none of the children had seen before, and they were delighted with them.

Then, when the performance was over, the bird perched herself on the woman’s shoulder and sang the most wonderful song. It was a more beautiful song than any the children had heard, and they seemed to understand what the bird was saying; they seemed to know what the song meant.

“Be kind, be kind, be kind

Be true, be true, be true!

Love all, love all, love all—

Then joy will come to you.”

The children listened to every note, and when the song was finished they did not speak. Silently they kissed and stroked the bird. One by one they kissed the bird’s mistress, and then they walked down the garden path, through the gate, and down the hill.

They were sorry to say “Goodbye.” to their friends, but they did not feel unhappy. They were each thinking of the canary’s wonderful song.

*     *     *     *     *     *

The woman stood in the doorway, and watched the children until they were quite out of sight. Then she sighed.

The canary hopped off her shoulder, and disappeared.

The woman sighed again.

Then Tuppy and Tue, old ladies once more, went into the cottage and shut the door.

“They are dear children,” said Tuppy.

“Dear children,” said Tue.

“I am sorry to say ‘Goodbye’ to them,” said Tuppy.

“And once you said you never wished—” began Tue; “but never mind, we have both said many foolish things, and done many foolish things, but now—”

“We are going back to Fairyland,” said Tuppy.

“Pack up the gifts,” said Tue.

“Pack up the boots,” said Tuppy.

“The magic boots,” cried Tue. “I wonder what Lord Pussee Cattums is thinking now!”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” said Tuppy, “he can’t do much without his boots.”

“Tuppy, tell me what happened,” said Tue.

“I was flying about waiting for you,” said Tuppy, “when, suddenly, to my horror, I saw my Lord Pussee Cattums sharpening his claws on a tree trunk. I thought he did not see me, and I flew across the field and hid in a loft at the top of a barn.”

“But he did see you,” said a voice from the chimney, “and made you prisoner, Mistress Tuppy. You were frightened of me, weren’t you? But I don’t mean that. May a humble cat venture to pay his respect to two old ladies?”

“Go away, Lord Pussee Cattums,” called Tue. “We have nothing to say to you—we are going back to Fairyland.”

“Taking your boots with us,” said Tuppy. “Why did you take them off?”

“To climb up to the window-ledge of the barn,” said Puss with an angry miaow. “I knew a silly fairy would never think that they were not on my paws.”

“Then I need not have been frightened of you?” said Tuppy.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Puss. “Ha, ha! But you were.”

Tuppy looked at Tue. Then they began to pack busily.

“We will stay no longer,” said Tuppy, “he may be up to further mischief.”

“Give me my boots,” said the voice. “They are of no use to you. I cannot hurt you now.”

“Poor thing!” whispered Tue.

But Tuppy shook her head.

“Ask the Fairy Queen for your boots,” said she, “we shall give them to her. Come, Tue.”

As they left the cottage the cat flew at the bundle, but the old ladies only laughed; and as they went down the hill, they saw the cat perched on the roof and heard his angry “Miaow!”

“Beware of the Black Witch!” he called.

But Tuppy and Tue were too happy to trouble about the Black Witch; they were off to Fairyland.

None of the children saw them leave the village, yet they must have passed through it, for, that evening, two very small parcels were left at two of the houses.

One was addressed to Joan and one to Beryl. Inside Joan’s parcel there was a canary, not a real bird but a wooden bird beautifully carved. Inside Beryl’s parcel there was a pair of tiny glass slippers. On the canary’s perch the word “Bobelink” was cut, and on the sole of one of the slippers “Cinderella” was written.

Joan felt sure that the canary’s mistress had sent the present, but Beryl never guessed that the fairies Tuppy and Tue had left behind a gift to remind her that she had once danced, and danced beautifully too, in Cinderella’s slippers.

XII

The Return of the Fairies

It was a very windy morning, for the breezes were exceedingly busy. They whirled to the Fairy Queen’s bower, they rushed away from it, they carried messages here, and messages there, whispering to the trees and to one another.

The trees waved their branches impatiently, for every murmur and every whisper made them feel more discontented and more unhappy.

The birds were twittering angrily; not a song, not even one merry chirp, was to be heard all through the wood, and the squirrel, as he worked away, busily gathering nuts, grumbled, grumbled, grumbled to himself. Even the young larch was feeling miserable. “Silly fairies silly fairies!” he muttered, as he tossed his branches up and down.

“Silly fairies, indeed!” said the old oak tree.

“Miss Spring not coming for months and months,” sighed the young larch.

“If Tuppy and Tue don’t come back soon, she won’t come at all,” said the old larch.

“I know who will come,” grumbled the squirrel, “King Ice has sent a message to say that he is coming next week, and he will stay a long time, as Miss Spring has been put off.”

“And no holly berries, no holly berries,” twittered the birds.

“Of course you have heard that the flowers are talking of rebellion,” whispered a breeze as it swept past.

“Then Lady Summer will stay away!” groaned the old larch.

“Silly fairies! silly fairies!” muttered the young larch.

And through the whole wood, one after the other, the trees, the birds, the insects, took up the cry, until there was a wild shout of “Silly fairies! silly fairies!”

The sound reached the Fairy Queen as she sat in her bower, and she shook her head sadly.

“Perhaps I ought not to have let them go,” she said to a fairy who stood beside her couch, “but I thought they would learn wisdom.”

“Perhaps they have learned wisdom,” said the fairy.

“But others are suffering,” said the Queen. “Even in my bower I can hear the cries of the trees, the birds, the flowers, and it makes me miserable.”

But the cry had changed to a joyful shout, and the shout resounded through the wood.

“They are coming—they are coming!” shouted the trees.

“Coming!” cried the squirrel as he dropped his nuts, and scampered up to the topmost branch of the fir-tree.

“They are coming,” chirped the robin.

“Then perhaps it is not too late,” said the Queen. “All may yet be well. Summon my court, summon the birds! We will meet in the woods, so that all may hear, all may wonder, all may sorrow or rejoice over the tale that the fairies Tuppy and Tue will tell.”

The breezes carried the messages far and wide; the fairies hastened to obey the summons, and before Tuppy and Tue reached the big oak tree, the Queen and her Court were assembled beneath it.

“How old they look!” whispered the young larch.

“Hush!” whispered the oak. “Listen, listen!”

As the two fairies knelt before the Queen’s throne, the whole Court rose and cheered wildly.

The Queen looked pale and worried, but Tue whispered, “Forgive me—forgive us!” and then the Queen smiled. All was well.

It was a faint, feeble smile, so faint and feeble that few of the excited fairies saw it. But a robin caught it, and at once he began to sing.

The other birds took up the robin’s song, and through the wood the song, a song of joy, was heard.

The Queen smiled again, then she held up her hand to command silence, and turned to the fairies.

“Speak,” she said, “tell us all you have heard. Describe to us all you have seen. Is the fairy power over mortals lost?”

“The fairy power—” said Tuppy, and there was a moment of painful silence, for Tuppy’s voice had suddenly failed.

“Is not lost,” said Tue.

The fairies would have cheered, but the Queen stopped them.

“Wait,” she said. “Then are the gifts useless?” she asked.

“The gifts are as powerful as ever if used in the right way,” said Tue.

“They were not useful to some of the children,” said Tuppy, “because those children were not trying to help themselves.”

“An idle boy could make no use of the Cap of Knowledge, and Cinderella’s Slippers would not fit a vain little girl,” said Tue.

“Of course not,” said one of the old fairies.

“My Cinderella was not conceited or vain,” said Cinderella’s godmother.

“Fairy Experience taught us that,” said Tuppy.

“Then is the world changed?” asked the Queen.

Tuppy and Tue nodded their heads. “How?” asked several fairies.

“Some stepmothers are kind,” said Tuppy.

“What?” cried Cinderella’s godmother.

“It is true,” said Tue.

“All the pretty children are not good,” said Tuppy. “There are not so many princes in the world, and it is difficult to tell a prince, because they are often disguised.”

“How very awkward,” said one of the Sleeping Beauty’s godmothers.

“Then,” said Tue, “the Great Magician has taught the mortals many wonderful things. They don’t need seven-leagued boots now—they whirl through the air sitting on wheels.”

“Ah!” said the Fairy Queen.

“Tell us about the children,” said one of the young fairies.

“The children—” said Tuppy.

“The children——” said Tue.

Then they stopped, and the fairies looked at them wondering.

“What is the matter?” whispered the young larch to the old one.

“They are crying,” answered the old larch. “They have learned to do that in the World.”

“Well,” said one of the fairies, when Tuppy and Tue were still silent, “tell us about the children.”

But Tuppy and Tue could not speak.

“I will tell you,” said the Queen. “Tuppy and Tue learned to love the children, and they did not wish to leave them. They were very sorry to leave them.”

“How do you know?” whispered Tuppy, between her sobs.

“I know,” said the Queen.

“But we all love the children,” said one of the young fairies.

“Of course,” said all the others.

“Not as we do,” said Tuppy.

“Not as we do,” said Tue.

“You have only been kind to them,” said Tuppy. “You have helped to make the world beautiful for them, sent them pleasant dreams, told them wonderful stories.”

“But they were kind to us,” said Tue. “Had it not been for the children we should never have come back to Fairyland.”

“Why?” said one of the fairies.

“Tell us about it,” said another.

“Begin at the beginning, and tell us every thing,” said the Queen.

And Tuppy and Tue told the story which you have read. The fairies listened eagerly until the story was quite finished, then they all began to talk at once.

“Forgive us!” cried some.

“Lord Pussee Cattums is a mischief-maker!” cried others.

“The Black Witch, the Black Witch!” cried several more.

And in the midst of all the noise a loud miaow was heard.

In a moment there was silence, the fairies made way, and Lord Pussee Cattums crawled up to the throne and lay down before the Queen.

He no longer looked smart and grand. He walked on four paws like an ordinary cat, his fur was draggled, he had lost all his power—he was only a stray cat.

“Give me back my boots,” he begged.

“That you may make more mischief,” said the Queen.

“If you will give them to me, I will be your servant, and will serve you faithfully,” said Puss.

The Queen hesitated, and looked at the fairies.

“I served the Marquis of Carabas well, and I tried to carry out the commands of my mistress, the Bl—I mean, of my late mistress,” said Puss, for angry murmurs were heard from the fairies.

“He will give the boots to the Black Witch,” said one of the fairies.

“The Black Witch cannot harm me if my subjects are contented, if they love me,” said the Queen.

“And we do love you,” said the young fairies. “If you will forgive us, we will never rebel again.”

“Then I do not fear the Black Witch,” said the Queen, “and you,” she pointed her sceptre at Lord Pussee Cattums, “you I banish from Fairyland for a whole year. That is your punishment. If you behave well, if you have an easy conscience, return at the end of that time to Fairyland and I will give you your boots once more. Go! Be a stray cat!”

Lord Pussee Cattums jumped up from the ground, jumped into the air, and, with a wild miaow, fled.

The fairies watched him until he was quite out of sight.

“We were foolish ever to listen to him,” said one of the young fairies.

“Silly, indeed,” said Tuppy and Tue.

“Very silly,” said the Queen; “but you have learned your lesson, and I forgive you.”

The Queen raised her sceptre, and the fairies knelt before her. For a moment there was silence, then, as the fairies rose, the Queen turned to Tuppy and Tue.

“Come to my bower,” she said, “I want to hear the story of your adventures once more. How glad I am that you are safe.”

“You sent the blue bird to help us and watch over us,” said Tue.

“We want to ask you many questions,” said Tuppy. “Why did Puss-in-Boots steal the gifts? We were only getting into trouble and mischief with them.”

“Puss was afraid you would hear that the slippers had helped Beryl to dance beautifully,” said the Queen. “Puss did not interfere as long as you gave the gifts to children who could not use them; but Puss was afraid that if you heard of Beryl’s success, you would guess the cause of your failure.”

“And we only learned the cause in the Cave of Experience,” said Tue.

“Why—” began Tuppy.

“Come,” said the Queen, “you shall ask and I will answer,” and she led the way to her Bower.

The fairies followed the Queen, the birds flew away, and the squirrel returned to his work.

The trees were left alone.

“Well,” said the larch, “and now they think all will be well. They have forgotten King Ice and Miss Spring, and my poor buds.”

“The fairies will work hard now,” said the young larch, “and perhaps the Queen will be able to persuade Miss Spring to come at the right time.”

“The Queen will have hard work to persuade her to come at all,” said the fir. “Miss Spring is a whimsical young lady; she is easily offended and easily put off.”

“Yes,” said the oak, “mark my words, Miss Spring will be very late next year.”

And the oak was right. King Ice paid a long visit—so long that the mortals began to wonder if Miss Spring had forgotten them.

The fairies worked hard, and tried their best to comfort and console the birds and the trees; but they wished many times that they had never listened to the idle talk of that mischief-maker Lord Pussee Cattums.

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Editing Notes

Text and illustrations were obtained from a scan of the 1897 first edition from publishers Cassell & Co., Ltd.:
https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/004292348

OCR and printer’s errors were silently corrected; punctuation, diacritics, and italics formatted. Spelling of a few words was modernized (e.g: spoilt to spoiled, learnt to learned, to-day to today).

Images were manually cleaned, enhanced, and repaired (some more successfully than others); and re-located adjacent to their associated text. Cover adaptation by ECM.

Embedded font for titling:
“Petrock” by Kevin King.

Chapter headings are cross-linked to interactive Table of Contents; List of Illustrations provides links to images.

Validation by Pagina Epub Checker.

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