THE PICCOLO

New Zealand Times, Volume LI, Issue 11785, 22 March 1924, Page 9

THE PICCOLO

AN IDYLL (For the '‘New Zealand Times.") Between the gusts *of the howling storm, the silvery tones were quite perceptible. Clear, and birdlike, they 'penetrated thro' the murky darkness, as though the furious storm carried from some remote region sounds of fairy revels. Even the torrential rain, beating upon the stone pavement, could not dull the rippling music scintillating and sparkling like diamonds of sound amidst the blackness of the night. Somewhere in that inky darkness the player must be hidden, alone with the treasure that gave him such delight. And like the great god Fan, sitting on a riverbank and charming with his pipe of reeds, human being©, os well as birds and beasts—in the sunlight—this player of the darkness, brought to tho violence of the storm a fantastic element, a delirious light-heartedness that took away much of the terror of the atmospheric disturbance.

And as the tones rose in an oxoheiJiwt crescendo and paused on a clear high note—like a dancer in a pose of infinite beauty—tho clear, hell-like tone trailed downwards again with a gentle diminuendo, ending in a throbbing pause. Then a few fantastic ripples, and surely, whole groups of fairies must be dancing in that far away cloudland. The beat of hundreds of tiny feet is quite audible! You flee tho fluttering wings—no two pair alike. Some, like pansy blossoms, laughing up at the sun; violet and white, azure and I yellow , £old, and black, sulphur and blue, white and amber. And in the midst of the grown-up fairies you see the wee fairy children, with wings like violas, and bright, golden eyes; dancing, dancing, so gaily with, in a "fairy ring" in an open green space, surrounded bv tho giant roots of mighty trees, in a sheltered wood—a beauteous wood that in the sunshiny hours affords such joy to mortals: — The dew-drenched woods, whore violets hide, And sweetest song-birds break tho spell Of silence 'midst tho branches wide. That shade the nooKis whore fairies dwell

shadowy, cool retreat. When Sunset tints the sky above, O'er the green moss, with flying feet . 7 1 ?® wIU come my own true Love. A mt bir ?/ 6 ° n^s vill not be more sweet. than the rapturous words he'll sav to me, branches old, Well plight our vows in ecstasy! Tfot at night, under the midnight moon the scene is changed! Adown thro' the tangled branches, the silver moonlight tinges tho scene with an opalescent splendour; the stars—above the foreheads of the fairies—glisten; and their shining wands send shafts of light athwart the omerald carpet at their feet. The sleeping wood-flowers nod in the moonlight, the fluttering garments of the dancers fan them like a gentle zephyr—but oh! so softly, that the flowers continue to sleep on , undisturbed till the dawn of the corning’ day. And when the revel nears its close, the dancers flit among the flowers of Night, that breathe their sweetness out in the midnight hours; and far from the cups of their raptured chalices, drink a draught of cool, refreshing dew, and then disappear with the coming of the dawn. Nothing now remains of the moonlight dance but the "fairy ring" on the green sward. The "fairy ring," to be met with here and there, in Celtic countries where the fairies havo not yet deserted, and where they still fascinate and charm those of the Celtic temperament. The fury of tho storm iB abating. The rain is now falling softly, in sparkling cascades. The music is getting fainter, trailing off with little regretful sighs, like fond lovers reluctantly saying farewell. A few faint sounds, and nothing is heard but pattering raindrops, falling on the thirsty flowers, that have been parched with the summer heat. —LAURA JUAN VICTORY.