possession of him.

Now, for many days, Nimble Jim neglected his cobbling and let the
weeds grow in his garden, while he moodily watched his melons as they
withered away. Soon he came to idle about them in the evening, too,
until, one bright moonlight night, as he was grieving over the
wretched, scraggy vines, he heard a tiny, silvery voice quite near him
cry, tauntingly:

"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons?"

Jim would have been very angry at such a question could he have seen
anybody to be angry with; but, though he looked and looked with all
his eyes, not a soul could he see.

"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons? Ha, ha, ha! Melons! melons!
Ha, ha, ha!" And the sweet little voice sang, in a merry, mocking
strain:

"Nice sweet melons!
Round ripe melons!
Nimble Jim likes them, I know.
Mean sour melons,
Crooked green melons,
Nimble Jim only can grow!

Ha, ha, ha! How are your melons, Nimble Jim?"

[Illustration: The Elfin Queen]