little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the
scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and
your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of
your book, just where you were reading.

But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little
child?

When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again
and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.

"Where have you been, you naughty child?"

"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.




[Illustration: From a drawing by Abanindranath Tagore--see
cfairy.jpg]


FAIRYLAND