s to amuse and do her good; for she was their only little daughter,
and they loved her very dearly. But nothing pleased her long; and she
lounged about, pale and fretful, till Aunt Laura came. Daisy called her
"Wee" when she was a baby, and couldn't talk plainly; and she still used
the name because it suited the cheery little aunt so well.

"I don't see anything, and the music has stopped. I think some elf just
came to wake you up, and then flew away; so we won't waste any more time
in looking here," said Wee, as she finished dressing Daisy, who flew
about like a Will-o'-the-wisp all the while.

"Do you think it will come again to-morrow?" asked Daisy anxiously.

"I dare say you'll hear it, if you wake in time. Now get your hat, and
we will see what we can find down by the brook. I saw a great many
fireflies there last night, and fancy there was a ball; so we may find
some drowsy elf among the buttercups and clover."

Away rushed Daisy for her hat, and soon was walking gayly down the green
lane, looking about her as if she had never been there before; for every
thing seemed wonderfully fresh and lovely.

"How pink the clouds are, and how the dew twinkles in the grass! I never
saw it so before," she said.

"Because by the time you are up the pretty pink clouds are gone, and the
thirsty grass has drank the dew, or the sun has drawn it up to fall
again at night for the flowers' evening bath," replied Wee, watching the
soft color that began to touch Daisy's pale cheeks.

"I think we'd better look under that cobweb spread like a tent over the
white clovers. A fairy would be very likely to creep in there and
sleep."

Daisy knelt down and peeped carefully; but all she saw was a little
brown spider, who looked very much surprised to see visitors so early.

"I don't like spiders," said Daisy, much disappointed.

"There are things about spiders as interesting to hear as fairy tales,"
said Wee. "This is Mrs. Epeira Diadema; and she is a respectable,
industrious little neighbor. She spreads her tent, but sits under a leaf
near by, waiting for her breakfast. She wraps her eggs in a soft silken
bag, and hides them in some safe chink, where they lie till spring. The
eggs are prettily carved and ornamented, and so hard that the baby
spiders have to force their way out by biting the shell open and poking
their little heads through. The mother dies as soon as her eggs are
safely placed, and the spiderlings have to take care of