geometrical spider,
must spin her a warm cobweb--and when you open the closet, be
sure and not disturb my little Fancie."

Some way Queen Imagin disappeared then. To any person less
knowing than myself, it would have seemed as if a dandelion ball
was floating in the air; but I knew better, and I watched her
sailing, sailing away till lost behind the trees. The crown was
gone, too; I discovered nothing in the neighborhood of the red
mushroom, except a tiny yellow blossom already wilted by the heat
of the sun.

Well, I am at home. I sit down this misty autumn morning in my
lonely room, and wish for some work or if not that, for something
to play with. I am too old for dolls, but very young in the way
of amusement. Ah--the closet! I'll unlock that; the key is at
hand--in my writing-desk.

Open Sesame! On the top shelf sits little Fancie, her eyes
shining like diamonds in her soft, dusky cobweb. She nods, so do
I, and we are in Greenside again--on a summer evening. How the
crickets sing; and the tree-toads harp in the trees as if they
were a picket guard entirely surrounding us. Hueston's big dog
barks in the lane at just the right distance. What security I
used to feel when I was a little child, tucked away in my bed,
and heard a dog bark a mile away; too far off ever to come up and
bite, and yet near enough to frighten prowling robbers!

"When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed," I was about to
say; but Polly, who is at Greenside with me, calls, "Just hear
the mosquitoes."

The blinds must be closed. What a delicious smell comes in! The
dew wetting all the shrubs and flowers distils sweet odors. What
a family of moths have rushed in; this big, brown one, with white
and red markings, is very enterprising. He has voyaged twice down
the lamp chimney, as if it were the funnel of a steamship.

Get out, moth!

"Sho," she answers in a husky voice, as if very dry, "It is my
nature to; that's all you know, turning us to moral purposes,
and making us a tiresome metaphor. We are much like you human
creatures--only we don't compare ourselves continually with
others. We just scorch ourselves as we please. My cousin,
Noctilia Glow-worm, who is out late o' nights on the grass-bank
in poor company--the Katydids, who board for the season with the
widow Poplar--a two-sided, deceitful woman--she does not care
where I go, and never shrieks out, 'A burnt moth dreads the lamp
chimney.' If she sees me wingless, she coughs, an