sky, glistened in the sun beam; and her net-like wings laughed at
the flowers because THEY could not fly, but must stand still and
abide the wind and the rain. The Dragon-fly sipped a little of the
Child's clear dew-drops and blue violet-honey, and then whispered
her winged words. And the Child made an end of his repast, closed
his dark blue eyes, bent down his beautiful head, and listened to
the sweet prattle.


Then the Dragon-fly told much of the merry life in the green wood;
how sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under
the broad leaves of the oak and the beech trees; or hunt-the-hare
along the surface of the still waters; sometimes quietly watched the
sunbeams, as they flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to
bush, and shed life and warmth over all. But at night, she said,
the moonbeams glided softly around the wood, and dropped dew into
the mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted the
slumberers with the soft roses of heaven, some of the half-drunken
flowers looked up and smiled; but most of them could not so much as
raise their heads for a long, long time.

Such stories did the Dragon-fly tell; and as the Child sat
motionless with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little
hand, she thought he had fallen asleep; so she poised her double
wings and flew into the rustling wood.



CHAPTER II.