s that shall be fashioned here
Will be the sweetest stuff, they say,
In Dorset Dear!

The Flight of the Fairies

There's a rustle in the woodlands,
and a sighing in the breeze,
For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes
and the trees;
They are packing up their treasures, every
one with nimble hand,
Ready for the coming journey back to
sunny Fairyland.

They have gathered up the jewels from
their beds of mossy green,
With all the dewy diamonds that summer
morns have seen;
The silver from the lichen and the
powdered gold dust, too,
Where the buttercups have flourished and
the dandelions grew.

They packed away the birdies' songs,
then, lest we should be sad,
They left the Robin's carol out, to make
the winter glad;
They packed the fragrance of the flowers,
then, lest we should forget,
Out of the pearly scented box they
dropped a Violet.

Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent
woods they came,
Where the golden bracken lingered and
the maples were aflame.
On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er
their wings the moonbeams shone,
Music filtered through the forest--and the
Little Folk were gone!

The Street Player

The shopping had been tedious, and
the rain
Came pelting down as she turned home
again.

The motor-bus swirled past with rush and
whirr,
Nought but its fumes of petrol left for
her.

The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
Malodorously mixed themselves with
these.

And all seemed wrong. The world was
drab and grey
As the slow minutes wept themselves
away.

And then, athwart the noises of the street,
A violin flung out an Irish air.

"I'll take you home again, Kathleen."
Ah, sweet,
How tender-sweet those lilting phrases
were!

They soothed away the weariness, and
brought
Such peace to one worn woman, over-
wrought,

That she forgot the things which vexed
her so:
The too outrageous price of calico,

The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence
Because she paused to count the dwindling
pence.