THE first time one looked at Els-
beth, one was not prepossessed.
She was thin and brown, her nose turned slightly upward, her toes went in just a perceptible degree, and her hair was perfectly straight.But when one looked longer, one perceived that she was a charming little creature.The straight hair was as fine as silk, and hung in funny little braids down her back; there was not a flaw in her soft brown skin, and her mouth was tender and shapely.But her particular charm lay in a look which she habitually had, of seeming to know curious things -- such as it is not allotted to ordinary persons to know.
One felt tempted to say to her:
"What are these beautiful things which you know, and of which others are ignorant?
What is it you see with those wise and pel-lucid eyes? Why is it that everybody loves you?"Elsbeth was my little godchild, and I knew her better than I knew any other child in the world.But still I could not truthfully say that I was familiar with her, for to me her spirit was like a fair and fragrant road in the midst of which I might walk in peace and joy, but where I was continually to discover something new.The last time I saw her quite well and strong was over in the woods where she had gone with her two little brothers and her nurse to pass the hottest weeks of summer.I followed her, foolish old creature that I was, just to be near her, for Ineeded to dwell where the sweet aroma of her life could reach me.
One morning when I came from my room, limping a little, because I am not so young as I used to be, and the lake wind works havoc with me, my little godchild came dancing to me singing:
"Come with me and I'll show you my places, my places, my places!"Miriam, when she chanted by the Red Sea might have been more exultant, but she could not have been more bewitching.Of course I knew what "places" were, because I had once been a little girl myself, but unless you are acquainted with the real meaning of "places," it would be useless to try to ex-plain.Either you know "places" or you do not -- just as you understand the meaning of poetry or you do not.There are things in the world which cannot be taught.
Elsbeth's two tiny brothers were present, and I took one by each hand and followed her.No sooner had we got out of doors in the woods than a sort of mystery fell upon the world and upon us.We were cautioned to move silently, and we did so, avoiding the crunching of dry twigs.
"The fairies hate noise," whispered my little godchild, her eyes narrowing like a cat's.
"I must get my wand first thing I do," she said in an awed undertone."It is useless to try to do anything without a wand."The tiny boys were profoundly impressed, and, indeed, so was I.I felt that at last, Ishould, if I behaved properly, see the fairies, which had hitherto avoided my materialistic gaze.It was an enchanting moment, for there appeared, just then, to be nothing commonplace about life.
There was a swale near by, and into this the little girl plunged.I could see her red straw hat bobbing about among the tall rushes, and I wondered if there were snakes.
"Do you think there are snakes?" I asked one of the tiny boys.
"If there are," he said with conviction, "they won't dare hurt her."He convinced me.I feared no more.
Presently Elsbeth came out of the swale.In her hand was a brown "cattail," perfectly full and round.She carried it as queens carry their sceptres -- the beautiful queens we dream of in our youth.
"Come," she commanded, and waved the sceptre in a fine manner.So we followed, each tiny boy gripping my hand tight.We were all three a trifle awed.Elsbeth led us into a dark underbrush.The branches, as they flew back in our faces, left them wet with dew.A wee path, made by the girl's dear feet, guided our footsteps.Perfumes of elderberry and wild cucumber scented the air.A bird, frightened from its nest, made frantic cries above our heads.The under-brush thickened.Presently the gloom of the hemlocks was over us, and in the midst of the shadowy green a tulip tree flaunted its leaves.Waves boomed and broke upon the shore below.There was a growing dampness as we went on, treading very lightly.A little green snake ran coquettishly from us.A fat and glossy squirrel chattered at us from a safe height, stroking his whiskers with a com-plaisant air.
At length we reached the "place." It was a circle of velvet grass, bright as the first blades of spring, delicate as fine sea-ferns.
The sunlight, falling down the shaft between the hemlocks, flooded it with a softened light and made the forest round about look like deep purple velvet.My little godchild stood in the midst and raised her wand impressively.
"This is my place," she said, with a sort of wonderful gladness in her tone."This is where I come to the fairy balls.Do you see them?""See what?" whispered one tiny boy.
"The fairies."
There was a silence.The older boy pulled at my skirt.
"Do YOU see them?" he asked, his voice trembling with expectancy.
"Indeed," I said, "I fear I am too old and wicked to see fairies, and yet -- are their hats red?""They are," laughed my little girl."Their hats are red, and as small -- as small!" She held up the pearly nail of her wee finger to give us the correct idea.
"And their shoes are very pointed at the toes?""Oh, very pointed!"
"And their garments are green?"
"As green as grass."
"And they blow little horns?"
"The sweetest little horns!"
"I think I see them," I cried.
"We think we see them too," said the tiny boys, laughing in perfect glee.
"And you hear their horns, don't you?" my little godchild asked somewhat anxiously.
"Don't we hear their horns?" I asked the tiny boys.
