Once upon a time there lived in green Erin a little girl by the name
of Nora. Her home was a small thatched cottage of stone beside the
brae at the foot of a mountain, in the midst of a woodland so deep
that in the summer time when the trees were full the sun got its rays
inside but a few hours of the day and you could see of the star-dust
that covers the fields of the sky no piece larger than the palm of
your hand.
It was a famous meeting-place for the fairies, this haunt at the foot
of the mountain by the stream, for the Little Folk from the heather
above used nightly to foregather in the meadow with the Little Folk
from the woodland below, and there they danced the long night through
among the shamrocks. But although Nora had heard about the fairies
from her grandmother, who sat all day tending the peat fire, and
something more about them from her mother when of an evening after
supper she had time to speak to Nora of herself when she was a girl,
yet Nora had never in all her life set eyes upon one of these feasters
of the forest. For the fairies, mind you, come only to two kinds of
folk, to those who believe in them and to those who need them. Now
Nora believed in the fairies all right, all right, but she had never
been in need of them until now, at this time that I'm telling ye of.
Now this same Nora was one of these lasses that is a wee bit gloomery.
And ye don't know what this same gloomery is? Well, she was at times
hindered by a rainy mornin' disposition. So it was plain enough to the
fairies that she was in some need of them.
One day Nora went into the deep of the wildwood a few steps below her
mother's cottage to a trysting-place where she often resorted when she
had the time from her daily duties.
She had been unusually heckled that morning, as all of us are at
times, by being obliged to do many things for the which she had little
liking. The spot was a favorite one of Nora's.
There was a shelter of rocks above, almost like a cave or roof, and
below there was a tiny stream of water that ran out of a spring in the
back of the hill and sang its way down the slope to the brae below.
In this pool Nora nearly always laid some field flowers, because they
kept fresher there than anywhere else. From the low seat that Nora had
made out of a stone in the back of her shelter she looked out into a
sunny place in the woods, around which stood, as if they were pillars
of a woodland palace, six gray beeches.
Now upon this sunny afternoon that I am speaking of, hardly had Nora
reclined upon her bench, feeling a bit drowsy no doubt with the heat,
yet not quite sleepy you know, listening to a robin singing with
the voice of Eden, when she heard a light tapping on the wall of the
largest beech, the one that was nearest to the place where she was
lying. At first when she heard this sound she thought that it was the
robin redbreast that she had noticed hopping up and down in the open
place in the sunlight, and yet she knew well that robins do not drum
upon the bark of trees like woodpeckers. So she jumped lightly up and
ran to the tree, and at once she was aware that the tapping was from
inside the tree. And between the taps that were no louder than those
of a branch against a window-pane she distinctly heard a very tiny
voice.
"How tiny was the voice, Michael aroon?"
You are asking me how tiny was the voice? Let me see if I can tell
you. You have heard the sound of the rivulet when it falls upon the
mossy stones in the pasture by the bar-way? Well, it was about as
loud as the echo of that if you should walk thirty paces away and then
listen. So Nora had to put her ear up close against the breast of the
beech-tree and even then the voice sounded no louder than the sound
of a beech-leaf when it falls from a branch into the moss-bed. But she
could hear what that voice was saying, and it was these words: "Nora,
my darling, turn the key and let me out." Nora looked around in
amazement, but sure enough, there on the breast of the beech, about
the height of her heart, was a small key of the color of the bark,
that she had never noticed before, though she had hugged that
beech-tree every morning of her life. So Nora turned the key at once,
and out stepped----"
"A fairy, Michael?"
Yes, better than a fairy, a dryad, that is a fairy of the tree. For a
fairy of a tree is as much higher in rank than a fairy of the meadow
as a duchess is than a goose-girl. She was about the size of the robin
redbreast, and she was dressed all in green, except a lovely cloak of
red that, when it was folded about her, made her look very much indeed
like the redbreast himself, and she was no bit bigger than the robin
either.
"Nora Mavourneen," said the dryad, "I have been noticing that you
seem a bit sad-hearted of late, and for no reason either that anybody
knows, so if you don't mind I will take you with me for a walk this
afternoon through fairyland, and we will see if we cannot do something
to restore your good spirits again."
At these words Nora danced for joy, and you would never have been able
to guess that she had ever known a downhearted moment. So the dryad
clapped her tiny hands three times, and out of the open door into the
beech-tree stepped a little gnome who came and bowed low before them,
holding in his hands a silver salver on which lay a little pellet.
"How little was the pellet, uncle?"
"Well, what would you say if I told you that it was as small as a
humming bird's egg? Oh, you think it was smaller than that? Well, how
about the seed of a coriander? No? Then I will tell you the truth. It
was as small as the gnat that gets into your eye, that feels as big as
a rat."
So Nora took the pellet from the platter and thanked the gnome kindly
and she ate it down, and no sooner had she swallowed it than she was
no bigger than the dryad herself.
So the dryad took her by the hand and they walked gaily into the
beech-tree door, and the door shut behind them.
They went down and down a lot of winding stairs that were lighted only
by small windows in the bark of the tree that Nora had never noticed
before and could never find afterward. It was very cool and pleasant,
for they could hear the sap go singing on its way from the roots up
to the branches and leaves and when a summer shower went by they could
hear the raindrops as they went singing down the trunk outside to the
roots. After they had reached the foot of the stairs they walked for
a long way through a cool corridor. It was not quite dark, for Little
People stood at every turn who seemed to be doing what fireflies do
on summer nights in the grass, and each one whistling to himself as
he held his softly shaded lantern aloft. Down the side passages Nora
could see thousands of tiny miners at work. And what do you think they
are doing?
"Digging for gold and diamonds."
They were tending the woodland plants that hang their golden blossoms
in the pathways and carrying up the dewdrops that sparkle like
diamonds from their leaves in the daybreak. And it was pleasant to see
them work, for they were all singing.
By and by Nora and the dryad came to a place where there was a
brighter light ahead, and as they drew nearer Nora could see that they
had come to the bank of the pond that is below Nora's cottage, only
that they were under the surface, looking up through a light so soft
that it cast no shadows. And now the dryad took Nora's hand and she
found herself in a little boat, no bigger than a leaf, sailing across
the pond but still beneath its surface. And here she saw on every
hand, working amid the mire and the mirk, such jolly little divers,
who were feeding the fish and tending the pond lily roots, and, like
all the others, singing at their tasks.
Now you will know of course that they were on their way to the home of
the fairy queen. And it was but a short while before they were there.
I need not tell you, children, how lovely is her palace, with its
golden floor and silver walls and its hangings of the colors of the
rainbow. Nor need I say how beautiful is her majesty herself, with
wings like the most splendid butterfly and a gown like the morning and
a face like the sunshine.
It seems that Nora had come upon the queen's birthday, and she was
just giving the birthday honors. So Nora and the dryad stood in the
background and watched the scene. Around the throne stood gallant
fairy gentlemen clad like beetles and dragon flies for splendor
and ladies whose long gowns hung like the light on the waterfall of
Loughmareen. But to the amazement of Nora, those who came forward to
receive the honors were for the most part dressed like workmen and
many of them were bent with hard labor. As each advanced and made
obeisance, the royal herald read the exploit for which the rank
of knighthood was about to be conferred. For one he read: "To our
faithful servant who covered the lilies of Moira from the attack of
the Frost King"; and to another: "To the gallant yeoman who watered
the grain field of Kilvellin"; and to still another: "To him who dug
the trench by the roadside and kept safe the highway to Throselwait
Fair." And as each came forward the trumpets pealed in triumph, and
after a gold star had been pinned upon the new knight's breast the
gentlemen and ladies of the court greeted them with hearty reverence.
And Nora looked in the smiling face of the dryad, but said nothing.
Then Nora herself, in a breathless moment of fear, was presented to
the queen, and the queen kissed her daintily just above her lips on
both sides. And suddenly Nora found herself back on her stony bench by
the spring with the branches of the beech-tree waving silently before
her.
"Oh, mothereen and grandmotherkin," she cried as soon as she got home,
and she ran home all the way--"let me tell you about the wonderful
visit I have been making out in the wildwood." And after she had
told her story, mothereen said, "I think Nora has been dreaming," but
grandmotherkin said, "No, daughter, I think our little acushla has had
her eyes opened the day." Then Nora in triumph showed the two dimples
where the fairy queen had kissed her. And do you know, my darlings, I
cannot but think that she told the truth after all, for ever after,
if one kissed Nora upon those two dimples or even touched them or even
looked at them, she would break into the sweetest smile, and she never
was gloomerin' or lowerin' any more.
[Footnote 1: First published in _John Martin's Book_. Reprinted by
special permission.]
* * * * *