When, very long ago, Oberon held his court in Kensington Gardens, the
King of this Island had a son named Albion. Now, as everyone knows,
fairies have a dreadful habit of stealing mortal babies and leaving
small elfin changelings in their stead. This is just what happened to
Albion, and he was brought up in Fairyland. When he was nineteen years
old (according to human countings) he fell in love with Oberon’s
daughter; but since no fairy may marry a mortal, Oberon was very angry
and banished the young man from his fairy empire. So dearly, however,
did Albion love the Princess that, rather than give her up, he sought
the help of Neptune, and was slain by the elves in the great battle that
followed. In revenge, Neptune destroyed Oberon’s kingdom, driving out
the elves so that they live now only in the hills and the dales and the
sea-caves and the rivers and the woods. The Princess remained and sought
to bring her lover back to life by means of a magic herb. It is said
that no sooner did the juice of it touch Albion’s body than it changed
into a snowdrop. But we are afraid that, in her love and sorrow, the
poor little Princess has forgotten.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: A dark, high-contrast illustration featuring a queen
walking on a cobblestone path, followed by a child carrying her train,
attendants, and a majestic peacock.]
[Illustration]
The Princess of Kensington
Goes down the cobbled street;
Listen to the patter
Of her small brocaded feet.
Her peacock, her page-boy,
And maids-of-honour two,
From dawn to dusk they follow her
London through.
The fairies of Kensington
Are driven out and gone.
From Hyde Park to Holland Park
There’s left but only one;
And she—she’s lost her lover
And searches up and down
The highways and byways
Of London town.
The night-watch of Kensington
A-calling on his round,
“Two o’ the clock and starlight!”
—It _is_ a pleasant sound.
But, ah, the little Princess,
How softly whispers she,
“Albion! Albion!
Where can—where can he be?”
The children of Kensington
Lazily they lie,
Fast and warm within their beds,
And hear her passing by.
But not a child will draw his blind
And shout, “Oh, _don’t_ you know?
He’s hiding in the Green Park
Where the snowdrops grow.”
[Illustration: A high-contrast, dark illustration of a queen in a
flowing gown with a bright pink trim, kneeling in a wooded area near
grazing sheep.]
[Illustration: A black-and-white illustration of a young girl sitting on
a grassy hill near a bare tree, looking up at a boy standing nearby
holding a staff.]
THOMAS THE RHYMER
_By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE_ THE CHOOSING
[Illustration]
As I was fishing by Huntlie Bank
True Thomas he passed by.
“Thomas the Rhymer!” I called his name;
He turned and he looked and back he came.
“And how may I serve you, my pretty child,
Sitting so meek and sitting so mild,
A-fishing the pool where the sedge is rank
Round and about of Huntlie Bank?”
And, oh, but the strangest face had he,
His coat was as green as the greenest sea,
And it seemed, as he stood and stared at me,
There was magic in his eye.
He held me an apple in his right hand
—The half of a fairy-man was he—
But up I got me and curtsied low,
Staid as a duchess and twice as slow;
And all my petticoats flounced as neat
As a daisy’s petals about my feet.
“Nay, prithee,” said I, “good sir, if you
Be going to Elfland, why, take me too.”
He clippered a clap of his velvet shoon
And a little white road fell out of the moon.
Quoth he, “If we’re starting we’d best start soon
Or we’ll never be home for tea.”
[Illustration: A dark, stylized illustration depicting a girl kneeling
near a tree, looking toward a standing boy who is gesturing with a
cloth.]
[Illustration: A stylized, high-contrast illustration of a dark ship
silhouetted against a large, bright moon above churning ocean waves.]