Elsie

If you were to search the whole of Australia you could not find a more

beautiful place than “Hawthorne,” the residence of little Elsie Barton

Elsie’s father was a merchant with plenty of money. He therefore

erected a large house, a little way in the country, away from the dust

and noise of the city. The building stood on a lofty hill, surrounded

by trees and a lovely garden, with a broad river flowing down below

among crags and thick foliage, and where the water seemed like a great

mirror fixed in an emerald frame. Little Elsie loved music, and was

always ready every morning to begin her music lessons without being

scolded and driven to them, as some disobedient and naughty girls and

boys are. It was a bright morning, and Elsie raised up the window to

admit the fresh breeze and the sunshine, and then sat down to the

piano. She had scarcely touched the keys, however, when she was

startled at hearing some one pronounce her name. The voice which Elsie

heard calling her was not a gruff or a rough voice by any means,

neither was it shrill or disagreeable in its tone; yet it was decidedly

unlike any other voice she had ever heard before. It seemed more like

the tinkling of a tiny silver bell than anything else, save that the

utterance was clear and decided, and sent a thrill, half of fear, half

of surprise, through the frame of the listener.

“Elsie—Elsie Barton!” repeated the voice.

Elsie turned about quickly, and stood amazed to observe upon the

toilet-table near the window the tiniest and most grotesque creature in

the world. The form was that of an old woman. Such a wee, graceful old

lady, with a lithe, slight figure, no higher than the bottle of perfume

near her. She was attired in a purple robe, green baize shoes, and a

shining cloak of the same colour, with a hood attached, but which she

had thrown back, disclosing her yellow hair. She supported herself with

a crutch stick, about the size of a wax match.

“Well, my dear, you are no doubt astonished at seeing me?” said the old

lady, leaning on her staff, and looking at Elsie with a smile. “Pray

take out those horrid long spikes you call pins from the pincushion,

and I will sit down and rest myself, for I am really tired.”

There was nothing at all repulsive in the manner or the aspect of this

strange visitor. So little Elsie, overcoming her wonder and amazement,

prepared the pincushion and seated the old lady thereon, then inquired

in a respectful tone how she came into the room.

“Through the window, of course, my dear,” answered the creature,

smiling. “We fairies come and go at divers times and seasons, and

exactly how and when we please.”

“Are you a fairy—a real fairy?” cried Elsie, approaching and gazing

with deep interest on the little lady before her.

“Certainly, child. Couldn’t you see that? We Australian elves are not

so tall as our kindred over the ocean, but we are fairies

notwithstanding.”

“I—I have read of the fairies,” said Elsie shyly, “but I have never

seen any of them before.”

“Oh, my dear, it’s a great favour for any mortal to see us. It is only

good children who have the privilege. Do you know why I came here this

morning?” said the old lady, fanning herself with a rose-leaf.

“No. Pray tell me.”

“A poor little boy, who has been dreadfully hurt, and who lives in the

little hut near the quarry, sent me to you,” replied the fairy.

“Is it little Harry, the widow’s boy?”

“The same, my dear.”

“I will go this moment,” she replied; and running down the stairs,

Elsie took her sun-bonnet from the rack in the hall, and joined the

elfin in the garden. Without speaking another word the fairy led the

way down the hill, and away along the sunny banks of the river, and

onward to a secluded dell, where Nature had exhausted the skill of

simplicity. The earth undulating into tiny hillocks, was clothed with a

tender verdure as soft and green as moss. The deep blue waters rolled

by with a hushed ripple, that was more soothing than silence, and a

blueness that rivalled the deep azure of the skies. On one side rose

great masses of rugged rocks, and these and all the trees around were

draped with great masses of clematis. From the roots of these there

crept along the ground the beautiful vines of the purple sarsaparilla,

and the grass all around was gemmed with wild violets and the blossoms

of a delicately pencilled little wild orchid. The scent of the clematis

made the air heavy with perfume, and the song of birds came with added

music from the other side of the stream.

In this pleasant spot were gathered together a troop of elves—little,

transparent people, dressed in scarlet, and blue, and amber, others in

white, shining robes, and with green jewels and wreaths decking their

golden curls.

Elsie Barton stood spellbound with amazement at the wonderful sight

before her. Many a time she had strolled through the lovely dell

previously, but she had never met either fay or sprite. While she stood

with mouth agape, the old lady fairy whispered in her ear and led the

child away out of the glen and over the river, where the blue smoke

from the cottage wherein lay the sick boy could be seen ascending in a

thin, spiral column up toward heaven, as if bridging the void between

the suffering child and the ministering angels of God.

Within sight of the hut, the fairy halted, and seating herself upon a

mushroom, said in a sweet, piping tone: “I cannot venture farther,

Elsie. We elves are but the emblem of good thoughts and benevolent

deeds. Whoever thinks least of self can see us palpably everywhere,

because we are beneficence personified. Wherever there may be an act of

kindness to be done, we seek out the kindly disposed to do it; but it

is death to us to look upon any other mortals, save the humane and

kindly hearted. Bend down, my dear, so that I may kiss you. Now,

good-bye,” and the tiny lady vanished in a moment.

It was a very rude dwelling built of slabs, and almost devoid of

furniture, and little Elsie Barton’s eyes filled with tears as she

entered it and beheld on a bed, in one corner of the room, a boy about

her own age, lying pale and ill. The poor lad had been obliged to work

in a quarry, to help his widowed mother and his two little brothers,

and a large stone had fallen down and had crushed one of his legs

dreadfully. The brave child was sinking fast for want of generous diet

and such nourishment as the widow was unable to procure for him, and so

the fairy had brought kind-hearted little Elsie Barton to visit him;

and Elsie helped the widow to make the sick-room more light and cosy,

then went home and told her mother about the sick boy; and Mrs. Barton,

after filling a basket with nice food, returned with Elsie to the

cottage.

And every day for weeks Elsie Barton carried her basket of flowers and

fruit, and choice morsels of dainty food for the little sufferer, until

the lad grew well and strong again; and sometimes, sitting in the small

country church on Sundays, the quarry boy sees her in the family pew

listening with upturned face to the preacher, while through the stained

windows gleam broad bars of rich and gorgeous light, which float about

her as a gossamer, and surround the gentle face as with a glory tint.