THE FAIRIES’ COBBLER.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 11, 12 March 1892, Page 262

THE FAIRIES’ COBBLER.

I SAT at work ’neath the lintel low, And the white-walled street was still, Save for the sound of my neighbour’s loom, • Plik-a-plek-plek,’ through the twilight gloom, And a curlew crying shrill. The curlew cried, and I raised my head, For I felt the good folk near ; Slim little shapes in the fading light, Dusk and dim, but their eyes gleamed bright, And they hailed me thin and clear. In they swept with a rustling sound. Like dead leaves blown together ; Bade me fashion their dainty shoon, * O the morrow’s e’en the Feast o’ the Moon, And we dance on the wan white heather.' So I took their gay stuffs, woven well, As never a mortal weaves ; Fashioned daintily, fashioned fair, Little red shoon that the Pixies wear, Of the blood-red autumn leaves. They stood at my knees, they crowded near, And shrilled a piping tune, Their great eyes glowed, and they whispered, ‘ Quick ! And my work went merrily, ‘ tic tac-tic,’ By the light of the yellow moon. ‘ Thanks and thanks for thy labour done, And aye when the summer’s o’er, And reapers carry the last brown sheaf, We ll send our sign of a yellow leaf, A leaf blown in at the door. ‘ So shall ye know that the time hath come, And merry at heart shall rise— Rise and go where we Hit and fleet, Follow the track of twinkling feet And the glow of our golden eyes. ’ They reeled away through the starlight air, And cried ‘ On our crystal shore, O friend, you shall ’scape the winter’s grief, Follow the sign of the golden leaf, The leaf blown in at the door.’ So shall 1 know when the time hath come, And merry at heart shall rise— Rise and go where they Hit and Heet. The little red shoon on the twinkling feet, And the glow of the golden eyes. Winter will come with snow-stilled skies, And the neighbours’ hearths aglow ; But the owls will drowse on my cold hearth-stone, For I shall be gone where the birds are flown And the great moon daisies blow, I sit at work ’neath the lintel low, And the white-walled street is still ; The twilight deepens dim and grey, To morrow it may be—not to-day— And I wait the Pixies’ will.