CHAPTER IV
A PROMISE OF BETTER TIMES
When Phil was alone again, he waited impatiently for the long twilightto end in darkness, and the stars to come out. It seemed a very longtime. Once in a while a faint murmur came from his harp, but it was amere breathing of sound, and he turned restlessly in his chair. Then heclosed his eyes and waited again, and his waiting was rewarded by asmall voice in his ear whispering,
"Here we are! here we are!"
"Oh," said Phil, "I thought you never would come again."
"Tut, tut, child, you must not be so doubtful," said the little voiceagain, and the starry coronet gleamed in his eyes. "I have brought yousome sweet odors of wild-flowers, and spicy breath of pine and hemlock,for I thought you needed a tonic."
Phil smelled something exquisite as she spoke, but all he said was,
"What is a tonic?"
"Something the doctors give when children are pale and thin, and do nothave enough fresh air. I don't pretend to know what it means, but Ioften go to see sick children in hospitals, and so I hear about suchthings."
"Hark! is that my wind harp?--why, it sounds like water dropping andgurgling over stones."
"It is the song of a mountain brook that my friends are singing as theydance over your harp. Look!"
Phil looked, and saw the flock of fairies like white butterfliesswarming again over his harp, and heard the soft, sweet singing whichkept time to their steps.
"Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!" said Phil.
"When you hear a brook singing, you must remember us," said the fairy.
"Indeed I will; but I am afraid I shall never hear one: only the hoarsecries of the street and the rumbling of wagons come to me here."
"Ah, better times are coming; then you will not need us."
Phil lay still in his chair, listening intently; the white figuresglanced in shadowy indistinctness across the window, only the starry rayfrom each little brow lighting their dance. They swept up and down, andswayed like flowers in a breeze, and still the little clear notes oftheir song fell like dripping water in cool cascades. Now it flowedsmoothly and softly, again it seemed to dash and foam among pebblynooks.
"Does it rest you? are you better?" asked the one little fairy who didall the talking.
"Oh, so much!" said Phil.
After a while the song stopped, and the fairies drew all together in acluster, and were quite still.
"What does that mean?" asked Phil.
"They are disturbed; there is a storm coming. We shall have to return."
"I am so sorry! I wanted to know more about you, and to see what youwear."
"Mortals must not approach us too nearly. We may draw near to you. See,I will stand before you."
"You seem to be all moonshine," said Phil.
"Yes," said the fairy, laughing merrily; "these robes of ours are ofmountain mist, spangled with star-dust so fine that it makes us onlyglisten. We have to wear the lightest sort of fabric, so that we are nothindered in our long flights."
"Do you know flower fairies?"
"Yes; but we are of a very different race. I suppose you thought wedressed in rose-leaves and rode on humble-bees, but we do not; we aremore--now for a long word--more ethereal." And again the fairy laughed.
"Ether means air," said Phil, quite proudly. "Do you know any fairystories?" he asked.
"Yes; shall I tell you one next time I come?"
"Oh do, please. So you _will_ come again."
"Yes, if I can. Now I must go. I thought I heard distant thunder. Wemust fly so fast--so fast! Good-bye--good-bye."
There was a long rumbling of thunder far off in the distance, and acooler air in the hot, close room. Phil lay and dreamed, wondering howlong it took the wind fairies to reach their home. Then the sweet, spicyodors came to him again, and he lifted the languid flowers Miss Schuylerhad brought him, and put them in his glass of water.
He dreamed of fair green fields and meadows, of silent lakes borderedwith rushes, out of which sprang wild-fowl slowly flapping their broadwings; of forests thick and dark, where on fallen trees the green mosshad grown in velvet softness; of mountains lifting their purple topsinto the fleecy clouds, and of long, shady country roads winding in andout and about the hills; of lanes bordered with blackberry-bushes andsumac, clematis and wild-rose; of dewy nooks full of ferns; of the songsof birds and the chirp of insects; and it seemed to him that he must putsome of all this beauty into some shape of his own creation--picture orpoem, song or speech; and then came a sudden sharp twinge of pain, andthe brightness faded, and the room was dark, and he was hungry, and onlypoor little Phil, sick and sad and weary and poor.
Adventures of Prince Lazybones, and Other Stories Page 15