crystal. The
rooms were hung with tapestry of rose leaves, and the floors were
carpeted with moss. The great hall was the grandest part of all. The
ceiling was made of mother-of-pearl, and the walls of ivory, and the
lights which hung from the roof sparkled with diamonds. These ivory
walls were to be covered with paintings; so the Queen called the fairy
artists, and bade them all paint a picture for her by a certain day. "He
whose picture is best," she said, "shall paint my hall, to his
everlasting renown, and I will raise him, besides, to the highest fairy
honors." The youngest of the fairy painters was Tintabel. He could draw
a face so exquisite, that it was happiness only to gaze at it, or so sad
that no one could see it without tears. No fairy longed as he did for
the glory and renown of painting the Queen's palace.

He wandered out into the wood to dream his idea into loveliness before
he wrought it with his hand. "Never shall be picture like my picture,"
he said aloud; "I will steal the colors of heaven, and trace spirit
forms." But Orgolino, that wicked fairy, heard him. Now Orgolino painted
very grandly. He could draw wild and strong and terrible beings, which
thrilled the gazer with wonder and awe. Of all his rivals he feared
Tintabel only. So, when he saw him alone in the wood, he rejoiced
wickedly, and said, "Now I will rid myself of a foe;" and he flew down
upon the poor Tintabel, and being a more powerful fairy, he caught him,
and pinned his wings together with magic thorns, and fastened him down
with them among the fungus and toad-stools of the damp wood. Then he
flew away exulting, and painted day and night. It was a magnificent
picture, with stately figures, powerful and triumphant, and Orgolino's
heart swelled with pride at his work, and he said to himself, "I might
have left that poor wretch alone. The weakling could do nothing like
this."

Meanwhile Tintabel cried bitterly, because his hope was lost, his praise
would never be heard among the fairies, and the beauty he had hoped to
create he should never see. The elf that lived in the toad-stool looked
up as the tears fell upon him, and gathered them up from his fungous
coat, where they sparkled like dew.

"What sweet water!" he said.

"Alas!" sighed Tintabel--"alas for my vanished hopes! Oh! how lovely
should my picture have been, and now I am bound down here to
uselessness;" and he could not feel the pain of his bruised and bound
wings because