Come with me for an hour, out of the hard, stony by-ways and hot, dusty thoroughfares of this work-a-day city.
Mount behind me on the broad wings of this carrier-bird, which most men have, yet which no mortal hath ever seen! Sit close and fear not, for our pillion is soft and easy, the steed safe. Now mount and away!
“Where silvery songs of bird and bee,
Of leaf and lake and stream,
Round us hum and flit and flee
While we linger silently
In our noon-tide dream.”
Nothing but ice! Walls of it, peaks, spires, towers, grottoes, floors. Ice everywhere! It is of all manner of delicate hues—pale green and blue; and where the edges catch the sun it shines even brighter than the glitter of a thousand clustering diamonds. This is Silverhaze, the border of Fairyland. The King of Silverhaze stood at the ice-bound portal of his kingdom, when he observed the approach of a very old man. The gait of the mortal wayfarer was slow and feeble, and he often paused to rest ere he reached the gates where stood the monarch.
“Who lives here, Spirit?” he asked of the Frost King.
“I,” responded the tall, bearded form, in a sweet voice which sounded like a song heard a long way off.
“Where is Fairyland, and how am I to get there?” inquired the old gentleman in a faint tone.
“You are standing on the boundary line of the region you seek,” answered the King; “this is the wall encircling the land of the Australian Elves, O mortal!”
“What a thick rampart of ice!” exclaimed the old man, curiously inspecting the great white barrier.
“True,” answered the Frost King. “This wall is made from the dew and rain of Earth that are not delicate enough to moisten the tender grass of Elfland. I catch the mists as they wreathe themselves upward, and divide them; that which has touched and been tainted with the under world I build up into these icy walls; that which is pure as the morning cloud floats on into the country where you are going.”
“Thank you; may I wander onward?”
“Ay! Few come here to break my repose. I live here alone. Continue your journey onwards towards Moonrise, and you will see all you want.”
“Shall I see everything, O King Frost?”
“Nay, that will depend on yourself. If you can fling away from you every thought that is not fit for the pure mind of an innocent child, then shall you behold wonders.”
“Alas! great King, I am afraid I cannot do that. Who can, who can? In my youth I never heard of this glorious Fairyland. Childhood, young manhood, mature age, were all spent by me in getting and hoarding money; and now the time is drawing near when I must depart; but ere I go I want to view the silver mosses and green slopes of these regions.”
The old man bent low before the Ice Monarch, whose cold blue eyes changed to flashing steel.
“The old man bent low before the ice monarch.”
“I can help you,” he answered. “Come here, and let me touch your forehead. If you wish it in your heart, I will draw from you your memories and thoughts, and send you a child into Fairyland.Your past will lie here for you in my ice cave, a burden or a blessing, for you to resume as you go out.”
“How, a burden or a blessing?” asked the mortal.
“That again will depend on yourself; according to what you see in your travels will your past seem to you on your return.”
“But you said I should see all.”
“You will have the power of seeing all, yet you will only see that which you care to look upon.” As the Frost King spoke, he advanced and touched the mortal’s brow with his finger. While he did so there glided beneath the old man’s feet a silver cloud-car, which instantly enveloped him and carried him away from the ice-clad border with the swiftness of a sea-gull. Amazement grew upon him as he felt himself borne away and no visible thing in view. Then remembering what the Spirit had said, he exclaimed aloud, “Can I not see what is about me?”
The words were hardly uttered when he perceived that he was the occupant of a gorgeous conveyance drawn by a team of butterflies, with a lovely child seated therein driving them. Wonderful indeed the delicate tints and shades which the moonbeams had woven in her robes. Still more wondrousthe blended purity and beauty of her face. Exquisitely, deliciously soft and musical the voice that addressed him in accents like the soft south wind, wooing the trees at summer’s eventide.
“Welcome, Sir Mortal. Welcome to Elfland.”
“Dear child, art thou a fairy?” he cried in surprise.
“ ‘I AM QUEEN OF THE BUTTERFLIES,’ SHE REPLIED.”
“Yes! My name is Rubywings,” she answered, with a beaming smile.
“Rubywings,” he repeated. “It is a delightful name, my child; but why do they call thee Rubywings?”
“Because I am Queen of the Butterflies,” shereplied; “and because I am also the messenger of Peace and Charity to the good of the Earth. Invisible to all else of mortal birth am I. Peace! Let us onward.”
Brilliantly flashed the wings of the butterflies as they wafted the cloud-car, light and joyous as the golden orioles that flew before them. Here they fluttered among curious rocks of veined and marbled stone, here and there soft mosses, which grew in little clumps, some in scales, like trays on which stood silver cups for the fays to drink out of. Then ferns peeped out with their long tresses that blew backwards and forwards in the wind. A trickle of water began to flow from a deep cranny, and tall plants blossomed along its course. Suddenly they came upon a wide, beautiful plain, robed with such lovely, silk-like grass, only to be found in these regions. Here tall palms tossed their feathery heads, while creepers, bearing flowers, streaked with gold and brown, climbed about their trunks.
Still onward, with but a passing glimpse at the emerald carpet beneath, until they reached a fine lagoon, in the midst of which an island appeared to view, so fair and beautiful that the rest of the landscape turned bleak and barren by comparison. Over this wondrous place Rubywings guided the cloud-car. Landing where a mossy bank sloped gently to the water, the fairy led her companion into such a charming garden that a burst of rapture broke from his lips at sight of it. The most refined imagination of mortal man never conceived such a world of rare beauty. No seasons came and went here, the flowers bloomed eternally. Like a jewelled crown encircling the brows of a queen, so a vast ring of pale blossoms surrounded this bower of loveliness—primrose, with her beseeching face, shy snowdrop, loving violet, with her whisper of summer, glad hyacinth, ringing a peal of bells, whose faint tinkle came upon the mortal’s ears, like subdued melody.
Rubywings pointed out a soft couch of ferns, bordered with lilies, and said,—
“Rest thee here awhile, O mortal. Sleep, dream, bewilder thyself. When thou wakest, thine eyes shall open upon the ministering spirits of Nature, which I go to bring around thee.
“ ‘Bi baby bunting,
I am going hunting
For the shadows as they fly,
For the winds to waft them by;
Bi baby bunting!’ ”
Ere her childish song had ended Rubywings vanished, and the mortal fell asleep.