Where the pools are bright and deep - Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea - That is the way for you and me.

FAIRY-TALES

Towards the bank a girl come down,
Her golden braids wound in a crown
Beneath her kerchief neatly laid
While, swift, she plied her scythe's sharp blade,
Across the greensward with her scythe:
Just watch her mow, row after row;
The grass weeps dew and bows down low.

It's far from home her team makes hay;
A cart of bread they'll tuck away;
A fortnight in the woods they'll pass.
At dawn they'll mow the dewy grass,
At noon rake up the warm, dry hay,
Nor lose a single sunny day.

For youngsters to sleep well at night
Tales before bedtime are just right.

Smoke, hubbub round the forest hut:
Beside the fire lie mowers - tut !
The forest's hushed both far and near.
Into the graybeard's mouth all peer.
He makes up pretty fibs, old bird:
Like stitch fits stitch,
So word fits word.

And through the dells
Start forest elves;
For staffs, they lean on rawhide belts,
With pitchforks girding up themselves,
Their eyes upon their girdles stringing,
The long road on their shoulders slinging,
Their feet gripped firmly with their hands,
They stomp along through fairy lands
And wave their pikes mid pine-trees tall.
The old man knows them each and all.
Far in the past it came to pass,
but not it's overgrown with grass...

Close to the fire, folks fall asleep,
Those tales alone their vigil keep,
Like songs at feast, so neatly spun-
No chink left for a mouse to run...