MOONSHINE AND FAIRIES
"Good-evening, yellow Buttercups
Good-evening, daisies white,
Tell me, have you met the Moon-Queen
On this pretty night?"
The little singer made a sweeping courtesy.
"How d'you do, Miss Buttercup? Do come here now and meet Mrs. Moon!"
With a gesture of exaggerated elegance she led an imaginary Buttercup
out to a pool of silver where the bright moonlight slanted through the
branches of an apple tree.
"Now, everybody, bow to Mrs. Moon," and the fairy-hostess bent to the
ground. Then she snapped her fingers. "On with the music," she cried.
Like a spirit she danced off over the grass, now scarcely more than a
shadow among the shadows, now full in the moonlight, bending, swaying,
leaping, arms outstretched, face lifted.
But the frolic of the fairies in the moonlight came to a sad end, for a
human hand reached out from behind a tree-trunk and caught the
make-believe hostess of Mrs. Moon by one thin arm.
"Lemme go!" cried the child, shrilly.
Nancy, awakened by the moonlight streaming across the rose-cabbages of
her carpeting, had been lured out into the night. Halting at the
raspberry patch she had heard the little singer. Cautiously, lest
indeed she disturb fairies at their revels she had crept into the
orchard. From a hiding place she had watched the child's mad dance.
"Sh-h! I am the Moon-Queen! Let me dance with you!" Releasing the
little wriggling body Nancy threw off her slippers. "Come!" Waving
her hand she danced down through the apple trees, singing:
In their dress of yellow gold,
In their petals white,
I can see the fairy folk
Gathered here to-night!
From the shadow the child watched her, sullenly, suspiciously. But
with her loosened hair falling down over her pink dressing gown, Nancy
herself looked an eerie little sprite; in a moment the child's alarm
vanished. Of course she _knew_ that this must be Miss Sabriny
Leavitt's niece, but it was fun, anyway, to pretend that she _was_ the
Moon-Queen! And she must be very, very nice not to have "chased" her
at once! And she might stop dancing, too, any moment! So out she ran
to join Nancy, with hands outstretched, and together they capered and
danced around among the old trees until, quite out of breath, Nancy
fell upon the soft grass.
"Oh, goodness me, what _fun_! Now come here, Miss Fairy, and tell me
who you are? _Are_ you a fairy come from the Village of Tall Grass in
yonder field?"
The child, completely won, dropped at Nancy's feet.
"I'm Nonie Hopworth."
"Oh-h!" Nancy was genuinely surprised. "Are you Davy's sister?"
The child nodded. "Yep." She regarded Nancy closely. "You're
_different_, aren't you?"
Nancy caught her meaning. "Yes, I'm different--at least, I'm not
exactly like----"
"Miss Sabriny or--or B'lindy. _She'd_ have chased me! That's why I
come here to play at night. Anyway, it's easier to pretend at night.
Do you ever pretend, Miss?"
"Call me Nancy, do! Of course, I pretend, often! I love to."
"Ain't it fun--I mean isn't! I forgot. I play it 'most all the time."
Nancy looked curiously at the strange little figure, almost wraithlike
in the dim light. It was hard to believe that the winsome creature
could belong in Freedom--and to the "no-good" Hopworths.
There was grace in every movement of the thin little body not in the
least concealed by the worn, soiled, out-grown dress. Two dark,
burning, eager, questioning eyes told of a spirit that lived above and
beyond the sordid, colorless monotony of a life with old Dan'l Hopworth
and Liz, who "didn't believe a feller oughta have any fun!"
"What do you pretend, Miss Nancy?"
Nancy laughed and rubbed the soles of her bare feet.
"Well, once I pretended I was the Moon-Queen and I scratched my poor
feet dreadfully. What do you pretend?"
Nonie rocked back on her heels.
"Oh, lots and lots of different things. My every-day game is Rosemary.
She's my make-believe chum. She lives down in the haunted house on the
North Hero road, only when I pretend, of course, the house isn't
haunted. And it's got lovely glass things from the ceiling for candles
and they sparkle like rainbows and diamonds. Rosemary and I play games
and we--we read and tell each other stories and sometimes she helps me
with the work, when Liz ain't around. Only Rosemary don't believe in
fairies. She says that's baby, so when she's away I pretend fairy."
"When the moon shines----"
"Oh, yes, it's nicer then. And you can't play-fairy round our house
because there ain't--there are _not_--any flowers. So I come
here--there are such lots of pretty shadows--and nice smells. I
pretend all the flowers come out from the garden and have a party.
It's fun having the flowers, 'cause you can just _tell_ how they'll
act. You know a tulip's going to be awful tall and proud and bow--like
this! And a rose'll act shy, and a buttercup's pert. And a daisy's
'shamed 'cause her dress ain't better--I mean isn't. And a dandelion's
awful bold. And a daffy-down-dilly--oh, _they're_ jolly!"
"How perfectly delightful! Tell me more, Nonie. I believe you have a
witch for a fairy grandmother!"
Nonie giggled. "That's 'nother of my games. I've had that for a long
time. She's coming some day and touch me with a wand and make me into
a beautiful lady. And I'll go out and step into my carriage and a
footman all shiny and white will say: 'To her Majesty's!' And I'll sit
in the best parlor and drink chocolate and real whipped cream from cups
with pink roses on 'em, and a page will say: '_Do_ have another piece
of cake, your ladyship,' and--and I'll say, 'I couldn't hold another
mouthful, thanks, I've had five!'"
Nancy and Nonie laughed together. Then Nonie sighed.
"Do any dreams ever come true? I mean the kind of things you sit and
think about and want?"
"Maybe, if you dream hard enough, Nonie," Nancy answered, soberly.
"'Course I know _some_ of the things I pretend can't come true but
maybe some will. Miss Denny told me they might. Only she said I'd
have to make 'em. She's my teacher. I love her. I guess you're most
as nice as she is. She gives me books and tells me when I say bad
grammar. She says we must just think beautiful things and then put
them into the right words--but it's hard! I forget awful easy. She
don't--I mean, she does _not_--think I'm queer. Liz calls me 'loony!'"
"Oh, _no_--Nonie," protested Nancy, "Liz just can't understand."
"But _you_ do, don't you? Miss Denny did, too." Nonie was silent for
a moment. "After I've learned a lot more I want to go out in the world
with Davy and make a fortune. I don't know just how--but I want to do
grand things. There's some places, ain't there--aren't there--that's
so big folks wouldn't know we were Hopworths? Davy says he wants to go
to sea and Liz says he'll come to no good end like Pa, but mebbe I can
take him with me." She sighed. "It's awful long off 'til I grow up,
though, I'm only twelve."
Then Nonie added slowly, as though she was sharing a secret: "There's
one more thing I pretend. After I go to bed I shut my eyes tight and
pretend that a beautiful lady with hair all gold and eyes that twinkle
like stars and smile at you, comes and sits by my bed and takes hold of
my hand and pats it and then kisses me, sort of on my forehead, and
says: 'Good night, sweetness,' like that, in a voice that's soft like
music and not a bit of the holler-kind!" Nonie gave a little sigh of
rapture. "It's nice, you see, to have a make-believe mother like that!
I s'pose a real one wouldn't have time. Anyways, Liz says she'd like
to _see_ a real mother do more for young 'uns than she does!"
Nancy blinked a sudden rush of tears from her eyes. She felt that she
had seen bared the very soul of a child--a soul hungry for kindness and
for love. She reached out and took one of the small hands in her own.
"Nonie--let's you and I play lots together. I can give you books, too.
We'll read them together. You can come to Happy House often in the
daytime."
Nonie shook her head doubtfully.
"Liz won't let me. She says there ain't--there isn't--no use my going
off and leaving my work. She says school's bad enough!"
"Does Liz--punish--you much?"
"She chases Davy and me with the broom sometimes. And she scolds, too,
but we don't mind, 'cause she's scolding all the time. I wish she
would whip us--or lock us up--or--or send us to bed! It'd be like
other kids, then."
The strangeness of a child longing for punishments that would make her
life seem like other childrens' shocked Nancy! She looked at the thin
body--was poverty starving the physical being while neglect starved the
spirit?
"I'll talk to Liz myself. We'll see what I can coax her to do," Nancy
declared resolutely. "We'll be chums, Nonie."
"Oh, then I won't have to play 'bout Rosemary! So, you _are_ as nice
as Miss Denny. You don't know her, do you? But she'll come back in
the fall and sometime, I guess, she'll be Mr. Peter's dearest."
"What _do_ you mean, Nonie," demanded Nancy.
"Well, Mr. Peter's the _nicest_ man I know 'cause he's awful--nice to
Davy and me, and Miss Denny's the nicest _lady_ and so she'll be his
dearest! He don't--he doesn't--know her yet but he will in the fall
and so will you."
"I may not," Nancy answered, rather coldly, "so your Miss Denny may
have your Mr. Peter all to herself. And now something tells me it's
time for fairies to be in bed! If you'll hand me my slippers I'll
dance with you to the gate--only we must be very, very still or we'll
waken B'lindy!"
From the gate of Happy House Nancy watched the child's figure disappear
in the shadows of the road. In a very little while she would be
crawling into her deserted bed, pulling the clothes up over her head
and pretending that a mother's hand was caressing her to sleep and a
voice that never "hollered" was whispering "goodnight."
"Blessed child," thought Nancy, "her fairy godmother has given her one
gift that even Liz can't take away from her--imagination!"