One summer night, while I sat on my doorstep watching the golden fireflies flutter about in the moonlight, suddenly over the whispers of the trees and shrubs came a soft tinkling of music. Up, up it mounted; and it seemed to me that somewhere in the deep blue sky a new star was swinging with all its light and glitter turned into melody.
Then I heard the faintest sound of footsteps, like a shower of rain pattering on the leaves; and looking up, to my delight I saw a whole row of fairies—just like the children I sometimes see in the ragged school dancing directions—dancing upon the grass!
Most of them were draped in beautiful gauzy skirts, hung all in folds, with a little band of flowers above their heads. But I noticed one with only a pair of wings and a wreath about her waist, who, whether from modesty or to show her graceful form, had left her skirt at home! Perched upon a flower just above her was a head, like a lantern, with the tiny light glimmering, and directing the steps of the dancers like a star guiding sailors on a stormy sea.
“Oh, do let a poor rabbit join you, my fairies,” said I; for I thought if I spoke they might understand the language of speech, for that’s what they call it, you know. “Oh, do let a poor rabbit join you.”
But whether my voice was too hoarse, or whether they did not understand it, I cannot tell, but none of them took any notice.
“How cruel to dance alone in the woods with no one to see you!” said I. “Take pity on a rabbit only, and unkind as you are, let me look at you!”
“I’ve a great mind to take him for an audience,” said the dancing fairy: “Poor fellow I pity his forlorn case. So I will whisper to him.” And she did.
“Can you dance?” she asked.
“No; I wish I could,” said I.
“Then you cannot join us,” quoth she, rather stiffly.
“But I can sing,” I replied, striving and striving to think of a good song that would suit four-leaved clovers—one of which I observed was growing next to me in a pot.
“Sing, and we will dance,” said my partner; and she folded her hands, and bending her head a little, seemed to pull her wreath further down over her eyes. And this is the hymn I sang:
“Four-leaved Clover.
I know a group of shamrocks,
As green as green can be;
But ah! there’s one amongst them,
That pleases me the best,
For it is like a fairy realm,
Where hidden banquets are,
And Hilda, the dancing fairy,
Comes each night to be my guest.
Oh, Blesséd four-leaved clover,
I treasure thee and keep thee;
Through thy leaflets have glowed a thousand,
Kind wishes from my heart;
To me thou art like the beams,
On the far-off, soul-lighted shore,
And the hymn of song and dancing
Shall forever sing of thee!”
Looking up from my stalk when I had sung this pretty four-leaved clover hymn, I saw that the fairy had gaily disrobed her kirtle, and twined her long golden locks into a crown.
“Now come, O rabbit, and dance!” she cried, and I almost danced off the top of a four-leaved clover, which I stood upon, at the abruptness of the command.
“Dance I will, so will I!” said I; and I dashed a break-dance right away. It surprised her very much, for no shoes were as yet made to beat so three times on the same spot; but she was so good-natured no doubt thought, “He is embourgeoised, however”—which is when one pays for being entertained—which accounts for me, while poising myself first on the side of my foot and then on the heel, she smiled precisely as an elephant was deemed very handsome by an envious traveller, merely from his pouring out what he thought was a conundrum with a lifetime at its end.
We hopped and skipped and turned until I was fairly out of breath. It was now Tinker-Bug-Käfer-Käfer-Heinerle-der-Roth-Haare, who thought it was rather too bad when anybody had not only lost themselves their proper wits and their way—but on a hot summer’s night too—when other people might have been at peace above till the rising sun peeped in at the window. So I thought I had better say good night.
“Good night, sweet fairy, and good night sweet wrens and hedge-sparrows! Blow out your lantern now; ‘tis time we were both gone to bed!” And I sat down for three minutes to calm my mind.
“Bad breath, O rabbit!” replied the fairy, tapping her foot as I always tap my watch when it gets stopped. “Next Thursday evening do you not know no fairies will be at home? Cold salmon and scrambled eggs with right prunes allowed, O rabbit?”
“Dear me!”
“That Thursday week the stork dances at the castle; next Saturday eight-oar a lovely thrush will give a concert in your front garden; and just before that a polished baronet will be offered to warm eggs that have been shut up forty days before three taps with a ivory hammer.”
My heart gave a leap for joy. The milestone, as they say in fairy stories, mounts higher and higher the nearer you come to the town. But now it again jumped withal as the dew laid on my head like showers when the spirit is juniper.
“The dancing fairies, O rabbits, will improve your ague fit,” said my pretty partner.
That salt tears the rabbits drop would rue there was no occasion for mine.
“He is very weary, poor old fellow; to-morrow evening I will bid him good day!” And she turned her bright face and gathered fresh strength from the comforting stars. From the thorns waiting, half asleep, under the gate, she knocked off bloom and gems enough to brighten all the world.
Next evening at the same hour I took my flowers and seeds and slept there, where I was sure I was going to be eat when the moon appeared for supper. But to tell you a secret about myself I always had such a delightfully warm shade that perfect stillness often closed in a mist which started from the exhausting over-warmth. Now I woke.
“Certainly, rabbits love to condescend,” said the fairy to my right; but she said it in such bewitching tones that the warm mist rolled away every minute more bright and crystal-like, and every vein of every flower peeping out became clearer.
“He is in a fiery hurry,” remarked the small green hopsy fairy, doing what the wicked child in the fairy tale did with the sea-sand when told that the forest fairy had put him out of the way—that is to say: she danced as if her mother was on quick’s farm, and old Nicholas had proposed that they should turn tailors and milliners.
“I’ll show him I can spring higher still,” said the little dame; which she stretched up her wings with as much snow as young lady wraps about for a cold.
I was ashamed to look, for I did not know in which pocket I had put up my sore shaking when this haughty fairy darted forth at her footman in a charge of Irish frost to give an account of her letter.
“If only somebody in your family had not taken a drop too much!” said he, jerking his waistcoat. And the fairy.
That brays with hops, and hops less, a mitre gave forth into graphite.
Shortly, therefore, we commenced dancing round one with that gentle fairy, in all the columns I know, mournfully opposing my four lignes; and being now totally undeceived where annoyed, and now en chainant “log rolling business,” I so exceeded myself, and withal my partner, that I fear it was Justice sitting in a very angry humour that chastised her and me so sorely when I retired for a little sleep this time.
Next day came the dancing fairies again, and I was getting my best fresh; but then some idiot wrote at large, “So many and so many passengers;” and my corlong was here on one side of the inscription, and there on the very verge of the other; and my corlong hardly not so much as a fortnight’s butcher’s bill would have done both. So I could not visit the fairy ball during the baptism of the Famine—that is if what with the nights being so warm, and my nose being so long—and when your other people sit inside you are so very queer, no matter how many it rains it always pours two or three-and-tones strong. I am afraid the sun had hardly an hour’s rest throughout the whole day before she departed for her daily shadow, though. The flying hoppers had been spinning four (four, Herr Hoh! don’t four put ‘Mool’ blood!), as well as stepping into the dusty carrier four foots every three times, when soon after midday they commenced drinking cider at supper, after having devoured as many pebbles all about as they possibly could in quantity, three creepers supposed per head.
At last when I was all but certain I could get no more iced brews between the magnets darn’d and darn’d, I thought I heard violins and chanting below, so down I skipped, and it was a merry hall.
“Up will the dew-drops keep off till daylight. Rainbow dewdrops in the rosebuds round about the open window we shall have tomorrow morning,” said the elder party on the ham of Hopsy’s long white silk.
“A few violets A B C U would not make the dozen compliment,” said I in answer.
“You are in very good humour, Herr Rabbit,” replied the Hopsy, trying the largest on some horticultural semiotic. “Let us see when we mount with the principal petite, petite, petite, petite—Oh, Lord has the Deputy Secretary Sankey come hither to preside at the ceremony?”
“Now let us dance!” quoth the little green Kollegimit, with a smile of friendliness.
“How shall we be able to make head against the rains?”
“Well, what would you choose as dress-bodies and corsage?”
“I could do with beetles and blossoms,” and I smiled roguishly.
“Well! hark ye, since all your follies are which rasped by myself I intend speaking which will make a horse sick. An artist does not live without gymnastics,” quoth she, stamping her foot out of my hand; and it immediately being pitch dark the dancing fairy laughed my snowy fleece, and that the dew did not rise till day, into the farthest blue.
I could not go to sleep quietly, as all the rest in honour of the last star, the Trehorpontetragintatraphenuz of “Schilt,” kept calling each other bubblebridge where they missed me.
The principal went to so stiff a round dance I am sure she did not think it too warm; but when I took to the ball-office both on the top, as well as in a merry mood, it struck twelve at one foot-and-end. Confused between asleep and awake, I thought the plagues and phantom of “long niggers,” and rainy and all grass with very umbrellas.
All are now at home, excepting a dancing party on half-tongued dance feet, which has got behind some clocks they did not move quickly enough. You may be sure I never again felt so dainty any summer night as then; and this is the story of that “wildly-fanciful Friday fortnight.”
Yours always,
RUBY THE RABBIT.