We sing, sing, sing.”
He sang the first four lines briskly and merrily, making the harebells chime in time with the music; but the last two he sang quite slowly and gently, and merely waved the flowers backwards and forwards. Then he left off to explain. “The Fairy-King is Oberon, and he lives across the lake—and sometimes he comes in a little boat—and we go and meet him—and then we sing this song, you know.”
“And then you go and dine with him?” I said, mischievously.
“Oo shouldn’t talk,” Bruno hastily said: “it interrupts the song so.”
I said I wouldn’t do it again.
“I never talk myself when I’m singing,” he went on very gravely: “so oo shouldn’t either.” Then he tuned the harebells once more, and sang:—
“Hear, oh, hear! From far and near
The music stealing, ting, ting, ting!
Fairy bells adown the dells
Are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting!
Welcoming our Fairy King,
We ring, ring, ring.“See, oh, see! On every tree
What lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting!
They are eyes of fiery flies
To light our dining, ting, ting, ting!
Welcoming our Fairy King
They swing, swing, swing.“Haste, oh haste, to take and taste
The dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting!
Honeydew is stored—”
“Hush, Bruno!” I interrupted in a warning whisper. “She’s coming!”
Bruno checked his song, and, as she slowly made her way through the long grass, he suddenly rushed out headlong at her like a little bull, shouting “Look the other way! Look the other way!”
“Which way?” Sylvie asked, in rather a frightened tone, as she looked round in all directions to see where the danger could be.
“That way!” said Bruno, carefully turning her round with her face to the wood. “Now, walk backwards—walk gently—don’t be frightened: oo shan’t trip!”
But Sylvie did trip notwithstanding: in fact he led her, in his hurry, across so many little sticks and stones, that it was really a wonder the poor child could keep on her feet at all. But he was far too much excited to think of what he was doing.
I silently pointed out to Bruno the best place to lead her to, so as to get a view of the whole garden at once: it was a little rising ground, about the height of a potato; and, when they had mounted it, I drew back into the shade, that Sylvie mightn’t see me.
I heard Bruno cry out triumphantly “Now oo may look!” and then followed a clapping of hands, but it was all done by Bruno himself. Sylvie was silent—she only stood and gazed with her hands clasped together, and I was half afraid she didn’t like it after all.
Bruno too was watching her anxiously, and when she jumped down off the mound, and began wandering up and down the little walks, he cautiously followed her about, evidently anxious that she should form her own opinion of it all, without any hint from him. And when at last she drew a long breath, and gave her verdict—in a hurried whisper, and without the slightest regard to grammar—“It’s the loveliest thing as I never saw in all my life before!” the little fellow looked as well pleased as if it had been given by all the judges and juries in England put together.
“And did you really do it all by yourself, Bruno?” said Sylvie. “And all for me?”
“I was helped a bit,” Bruno began, with a merry little laugh at her surprise. “We’ve been at it all the afternoon—I thought oo’d like—” and here the poor little fellow’s lip began to quiver, and all in a moment he burst out crying, and running up to Sylvie he flung his arms passionately round her neck, and hid his face on her shoulder.
There was a little quiver in Sylvie’s voice too, as she whispered “Why, what’s the matter, darling?” and tried to lift up his head and kiss him.
But Bruno only clung to her, sobbing, and wouldn’t be comforted till he had confessed. “I tried—to spoil oor garden—first—but I’ll never—never—” and then came another burst of tears, which drowned the rest of the sentence. At last he got out the words “I liked—putting in the flowers—for oo, Sylvie—and I never was so happy before.” And the rosy little face came up at last to be kissed, all wet with tears as it was.
Sylvie was crying too by this time, and she said nothing but “Bruno, dear!” and “I never was so happy before,” though why these two children who had never been so happy before should both be crying was a mystery to me.
I felt very happy too, but of course I didn’t cry: “big things” never do, you know—we leave all that to the Fairies. Only I think it must have been raining a little just then, for I found a drop or two on my cheeks.
After that they went through the whole garden again, flower by flower, as if it were a long sentence they were spelling out, with kisses for commas, and a great hug by way of a full-stop when they got to the end.
“Doos oo know, that was my river-edge, Sylvie?” Bruno solemnly began.
Sylvie laughed merrily. “What do you mean?” she said. And she pushed back her heavy brown hair with both hands, and looked at him with dancing eyes in which the big teardrops were still glittering.
Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his mouth for a great effort. “I mean re—venge,” he said: “now oo under’tand.” And he looked so happy and proud at having said the word right at last, that I quite envied him. I rather think Sylvie didn’t “under’tand” at all; but she gave him a little kiss on each cheek, which seemed to do just as well.
So they wandered off lovingly together, in among the buttercups, each with an arm twined round the other, whispering and laughing as they went, and never so much as once looked back at poor me. Yes, once, just before I quite lost sight of them, Bruno half
