[Illustration: THE TOWN OF WEIR]




THE FAERY TALES OF WEIR


Only in far-away towns are the real faery tales told in shadowy nurseries
whose windows in summer open upon shimmering gardens and on whose walls
in winter the fire-goblins dance. Weir is one of these towns--a sweet,
hushed place, lying where the hills spread broadly to the south sun, and
the trees are thick as in a painting.

There are shops, too, with bulging windows through which you can scarcely
see the toys or the flowers or the sweetmeats, because Time has
finger-marked the glass with violet and crimson stains that shift and
merge so that the contents of the windows are seen as through wavering
sea-water. Beyond the shops are the houses asleep beneath great trees,
their warm red bricks showing where the ivy has thinned. Their stacked
chimneys send out faint blue spirals of smoke, to let you know that the
fires are on the hearths and about the hearths the children are gathered.

The little old churches placed where Weir drowses out into the country,
have hoarse, sweet bells like the voices of old women who whisper of the
Christ Child at Christmas time; and in the churches are windows as full
of color as the gardens of Weir.