In a small corner of a big world, there was a fairy forest where no human ever came. It was so lovely that no one could believe it but there were the queerest little paths and the loveliest of flowers and a stream that sparkled like a million tiny stars beneath the big trees. And at the top of a tall mushroom in the middle of a green glade lived a pixie called Pixie.
Each evening her cherry red door opened, and she looked out to see what sort of news there was. Of course she never saw the same thing twice, for the forest changed every hour of the day, but as soon as it grew dusk two or three red lamps began to twinkle and then the fairies flew to and fro preparing for the ball.
You see, each star that shone down out of the blue sky was a fairy’s house, and when the moon had to come and sit in the great sky parlour to have a chat with the sun she had to give up her house to let all the little fairies come and see her, so she had to make them happy in every way she could.
Sometimes on a starry night the moon would put the gold grill of her door before the sky, the sun would pack up her sunbeams and her crown of sunrays and go out for a good long rest and then shy little children would creep out of bed and come running bare-foot on the soft grass until they came to the only tree in the world from which all things they wished came down like the fruit.
Of course as soon as it grew dark only one or two children could be there at a time, and very soon the branches were so heavy with wishes that they all began to tumble to the ground. But Pixie was there, and with all her fairy friends picked up the lovely wishes and carried them to the tiny starry doors so that the fairies could bring them back.
Half of the wishes were for toys of all sorts and kinds, and soon the forest was filled up with dolls and tops, and every now and then Pixie, or one of the other fairies, would run in and out with a dozen or so to be given to the children to play with; but that left so many still hanging on the trees.
Then one little child standing on tiptoe helped her off with her warm woollen belly-band and begged Pixie to take that instead of a toy, so she untied the woollen round and round and packed it on her back and handed it up. But that was not the sort of desire that was there, for as soon as the wish was fastened on the tree it grew hot and lit the sky up and made all the trees and the flowers and everything in the fairy forest sparkle. It was when requests were of that sort that all the fairies stood there in frills and flounces, but they were only needlessly worried this time. Pixie grew so hot that she was tired out long before there were no requests left.
When at last everything was done and the remaining wishes were carried home by the other fairies, she lay down upon a flower and put her tiny arms under her cheek all pink and smooth and fell asleep.
While she was there sleeping at the foot of the tree little children were waiting with the presents, and from that hour to this that has been the custom.
Never a star has shone but there have been little folk groveled down to watch for the witching hour, and never a box has been found empty in the morning. Not everyone’s sheep are white, but that does not hurt, and this world is very big after all. That’s the way of it.
The next night Pixie was teaching poor little children who came to her not to make requests for things of wealth. Happy was she when they made good ones.
One night towards midnight a flash-mark and bright flower crept trembling out to her, and, as poor flower could hardly say a word, it was obvious that there was something wrong.
“Oh! dear fairy,” the latter said when it could speak, “I badly want a fine fresh dress that the boys have promised to give me three days afterward for a wish.”
“Did I not tell you not to come for ropes and silk?” said she. “I won’t bother about her.”
“But there is a more good-natured one who did not take a rich dress out because she put her hand in her pocket, so she must give both that and the one she got and not leave one for herself, so let us give this one.”
“Because,” put in the flower, “I sorely need trousers and a mouth-organ to play a tune on as soon as the rich dress comes home, for all want to be happy.”
Then asked she, “What little thing did you not make designs for?”
“A carpet bag that went to my feet. That’s all I can think of for the minute. But however can the dress come when there are two fairies too glad to get it and hard enough to part with glimmering coins? I’ll do my best, no matter what. All you can.”
So in three minutes Pixie’s cloak was a carpet bag and the dress the other fairy had packed the three times had to do.
At once he was happy because not for worlds would he have to pass by a bargain of his old princely grandfather, and no poorer than she, to boot.
But all the coins the others had given pinch us too much to part.