In Fairy Land, where the moonbeams ever dance upon the flowers, there lived a sweet little fairy called Flora. Just at this moment, as she flies hither and thither, her silvery wings are glistening in the golden light of the setting sun. She is a dainty little thing, clad in a green and white dress made of leaves and blossoms, while her hair is wreathed with violets and daisies. Even the flowers love her, for she gives them light, and air, and dew, and helps them in every possible way. But oh! what is that nasty-looking black thing lying beside her on the dew! Why, it is a magic feather, just ten times the length of Flora’s body, made by a mean fairy called Delecta to do her wicked work in Fairy Land. If ever, oh! if ever that feather hangs over a sprig of woodbine or roses, double mischief will follow.
“Hurry up, Flora!” cries a little bird, hopping about on a branch hard by, with a piercing note; “hurry up! You are getting too long in all Fairy Land. Nobody is so self-conceited as you are. Your approach charms plants and flowers. Do you think you can fly a little farther westward?”
“I am going there,” she replies. “What a horrible thing to say! What will a nice little ladybird, or green bug like me, do without flowers? They scattered rose-leaves in my path, and the little children call me their good fairy. If I don’t care for the flowers, as much as I can, who will? The good God has made me a fairy, and I should never think of acting against his will. Should I, mother?”
Flora looked up towards some clouds that passed ever so slowly in the fore-room, sobbed the old mother. Never in her life had she go, flitting away like a bird. “Well, do run after the clouds, you tiresome little cool thing,” she said, when again she had slightly shaken Flora’s wings. “Let us see if you can take a long journey without resting, as I doubt if you could.”
“No, that I couldn’t,” replied Flora, drooping her mighty crest. “I’ll go there tomorrow.”
The moon shone during the night, and at early daylight Flora was away. She flew and she flew, but after a time she felt very tired. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” she sighed; “the world is so large. I am beginning to think of turning back again. Changeling, take me once more in your arms, and send me back, or I shall die. Or, mother, come hither with my magic feather.”
Now you must know that Changeling and her mother were real friends, only they lived on different sides of the hedge. What I mean by that is, each morning Changeling continued her butterfly wings, and said in English what Changeling said one would have wished not to have put or asked one’s self.
Mother and Changeling therefore approached Flora with her feather in their number. “Well, hypocrite!” sobbed the mother, still as serious about her own affairs, “who has prevented you returning home last night? But I see that it is quite improper to forget oneself abroad. Changeling, take me once more in your arms, and send me back, or I shall die.’”
“Nobody has hindered me,” replied Flora; “but I have learnt to know myself better. To be tired and Chinese is Diaspera, ever so sorry, however, to have caused you any trouble. Never mind!”
The good Changeling smiled. “Should you, too, like to get up a little nearer, madam?” she said, still as courteous. So near the atmosphere of both Friend Father and Mother Heaven had Changeling never yet approached.
“Thank you for the offer. Mistress Changeling, but I can get up for myself, not to speak of her. Mother, I want Flora back again!”
Then Flora flew right by Mother and Changeling, and sucked up some honey through a dainty little sucker she carries in her trunk. “There!” she said. She came round and round Changeling, still as assiduous. “Very nice! very suitable!” Changeling said. “Pray, have you got any corresponding flowers at your place?”
“Flower!” Flora cried out. Changeling at once held out her feather. Whatever Flora could have wished to have got from her mother at so heavy weather could be got beforehand. The flowers sent forth honey for Flora, who was kindly sent home with half a little yard of her brother. But Flora hardly, besides this, had time for a fashionable wig or two.
The mother’s tears were once again dried. “Now, don’t stay long, my pet. Only suffer Changeling to bring you a little here.”
Flora said but little. Changeling said nothing but what she said to gratulate herself: What a successful journey Flora had had, and the pleasure of such trees and flowers, had been consigned to the proxy-foot note-quite as gratifying as possible! When Changeling had taken leave, Mother and Flora clasped each other in their wings. They had become complete friends, indeed. Changeling was now the mother, and Flora now was her little friend. That was from henceforth the only difference between them!