A FANTASY OF FAIRIES

Southland Times, Issue 21832, 8 October 1932, Page 21

A FANTASY OF FAIRIES

Surely there is not one, however unromantic, who has not at some time or other, been lured by the thought of fairy lore. Some of us, perhaps, when younger, imagined fairies in every nook and cranny, gaily playing and singing—yet we knew it was quite impossible to see them, for they were so very, Very tiny. Still we believed that at night—when the soft moon-beams gently caressed the sleeping flowers, and the shy night breeze hpvered roundthrough the open window, troupes of elves, gay gnomes, and timid fairies, all beautiful and delicate, would come, and after executing a dance full of vigour and quaintness, would carry us off to that Land of Sweetest Dreams. There until morning we would rest contented, happy, and excited that such a lovely surprise had come our way. We had other ideas, too; of fairy parties on the lawn, when we were only too certain that we heard the tinkling of the blue-bells calling us to join in their frolics. We loved to think that the fallen flower petals which lay scattered about on the sparkling dewy grass were fairies’ dancing dresses; “hung about to air.” Then did we ever give up hope of seeing one day, our very own Fairy Godmother? Ah no! We were sure she would come all unexpectedly (as she came to poor little Cinderella) and wave her wand so mysteriously until we had dolls, books, pretty dresses (like fairies wear, of course), balls, shoes, pictures—everything we desired! Such were some of the fairy fancies of our childhood. As we begin to grow up, the ideas of fairies and their ways necessarily change. We do not treat them as revellers, timid and frightened of all mortal ways, nor do we regard them as little people too full of magic power to be absolutely real. Yet we feel there must be fairies. The country way-side flower is painted so perfectly; the glorious golden-honeyed gorse impregnates the air with such i are perfume, yet so delicately sweet, that it alone is a Fairyland melody; the flowers fold their petals so gently and tightly that surely through the tranquil nigh’ hours they guard some little folk who keep them tidy during the day; everything points to fairy fingers (for no others could do the work so beautifully and skilfully), those fingers which open the blossoms on the Spring-time flowering trees, and make them such a picture of fine beauty almost too wonderful, it would seem to us, to feast our eyes upon. It must be to the fairies hidden in each flowery stem that the silver-throated choristers twitter their sweet ditties. “Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! A merry note!” If we look we can find an exquisite Fairyland almost everywhere. When we discover, maybe in our ramblings through the bush, a delightful little place, all guarded snugly with grand trees, a little place where a singing stream goes trickling on its way over stones and moss, and where the languid ferns droop their heads in the crystal water and raise them again, refreshed, we cannot doubt that this enchanted dell full of beauty is a piece of Fairyland. We stand on the sea-shore and watch the sea in its changing moods—in its tranquillity, when only small ripples disturb its calm serenity, in its jocularity, when the foaming, dashing breakers tumble mirthfully over each other in an endeavour to reach the shore, and in its anger, when it booms and roars like the combined sonorous voices of wrathful giants, its great bosom heaving and swelling with ire the while. Could these beauties be anything else but—- “ Magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, In Fairylands forlorn.” It appears, then, that fairies are always recognized as beautiful little folk, shedding beauty, gladness, and happiness wherever they go. Their hands and hearts full of love and goodness must have given us all the beauty we see, to help to make our surroundings more like their Fairyland of perfection. —Cousin Jean Nichol (16), 166 Clyde street, Invercargill.