[Ill.u.s.tration: UNDER A LARGE TREE IN THE GARDEN]

"I find myself looking forward quite eagerly to my return to the city in the autumn," she said to grandmother. "Letty will need some clothes before she goes to school, of course, and it will be such a pleasure to buy them. It has been so long since I have had any one to buy clothes for," she added, the tears coming to her eyes. "I dare confess now, Mrs.

Baker, how much I have envied you Janey and Kit this summer."

"They are dear children," agreed grandmother with a sigh, "but they are growing up so fast! Until this year they were always 'the children.' Now Jane is a girl and Kit a boy." Grandmother paused a moment as if she wished to say something more, but she was afraid of boring her visitor by discussing the children too much and changed the subject.

It happened that the afternoon of the day before that set for the return of Letty and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones to the village was very hot, and all the grown-ups had retired to their own rooms to lie down. The children were told to stay quietly in the shade until the sun was lower, and Letty agreed to tell them stories. So they settled themselves under a large tree in the garden close to the house and, as it happened, just underneath Mrs. Hartwell-Jones's window.

Letty began with "Jack the Giant Killer," which she had read in one of Jane's old books, but found that she was listened to with only polite interest.

"I think Jack ought to have saved the giant's wife before he cut down the beanstalk," said Christopher disgustedly, when the story was ended, "after she had treated him so kindly and all. It was a shame to leave her up there without any way of getting down."

"She was the fairy, you goose," exclaimed Jane, "who first told Jack that all the giant's treasure belonged to his mother, and so she could easily get down, because fairies can go anywhere."

"Don't you know any other stories, Letty?" asked Christopher. "New ones?"

"Make up one!" urged Jane. "You know you said you did sometimes."

"But they aren't really stories; I mean not long ones. They're just little thoughts about the birds and flowers and things talking. But I will try to tell you a story I read once, that I love dearly. It was a story in a magazine that a girl lent me at school, and I loved it so that I read it over and over again. I think I know it by heart and I'll tell it to you if you think it will interest you. It's not exactly a boy's story," she added apologetically, looking at Christopher.

"Oh, never mind, fire away," answered Christopher grandly.

Christopher was very comfortable, sprawled on his back in the shade, and was ready to be amused by anything except a nursery tale.

"Well, then, here is the story. It is called 'Thistledown.'"

"'Thistledown,'" repeated Christopher, "that's a funny name."

"Thistledown was the fairy's name, and you'll see what he got for being naughty and mischievous. Well--"

"Before you begin, Letty," broke in Jane, "please make Kit promise one thing-that he won't interrupt."

"Huh, I'd like to know who was the first to interrupt," mocked Christopher.

"I didn't interrupt. The story hadn't begun yet. Make him promise, Letty, do."

"I don't see why I have to promise."

"Because it spoils a story so, Kit. Please promise. Letty's going to recite the story, just as we do our poetry at school, and she might forget something if she had to stop in the middle. Besides, explanations cut up a story so. Come on, say you won't interrupt, like a good boy. I know you won't if you only promise."

"Well, I'll not interrupt if you don't," conceded Christopher. "Go on, Letty, let's hear what happened to Thistledown."

CHAPTER X

THISTLEDOWN

"Well," commenced Letty cheerfully, "it began like this:

"Thistledown was a roguish elf and, I am afraid, rather a selfish little fellow. The sight of good examples did not make him want to be useful or helpful at all. Indeed, nothing could make him work except to threaten to take away his liberty. For Thistledown prized his liberty dearly. Not from the high, n.o.ble motives of honor and self-respect that are the reasons why most people insist upon having their rights, but because to Thistledown his liberty meant his happiness. It meant nice long, warm hours in which to float idly about the great sunshiny world with never a thought or care in his feather-brained head.

"He was not a bothersome elf, as idle folk are so apt to be. He was too lazy to tease-except to give an occasional pa.s.sing tickle to the long nose of some serious old gnome bent over his work, when Thistledown's merry laugh at the goblin's sneeze and start of surprise was so jolly that the gnome had to laugh too, and so no cross words were spoken.

"The breezes were Thistledown's best friends. They were as lazy and careless as himself, and the kindred spirits got on splendidly together.

The breezes would carry him on long, swift rides astride their backs, or float with him lazily along over sweet-smelling fields of flowers.

Sometimes they would dip him in the brook, but Thistledown did not mind that, for he shed water like a duck and the little plunge served finely to cool him off on hot summer days.

"But lazy folk are bound to be punished sooner or later, for it is not right to be lazy, and everything that is not right in the world is sure to be punished some time or other. And so it happened-but I am going to let Thistledown tell his story in his own way. (Yes, Kit, that is just the way it was in the magazine.)

"One day as Thistledown was floating over a field of daisies, he spied a spot of yellow among the flowers that was very much larger than any of the daisy centres, and much shinier and softer. Too lazy to wonder what the new kind of blossom could be, but thinking that it looked like a snug, silky place for a nap, he dropped down upon it. Immediately his downy wings became mixed up in a soft tangle of long golden threads that curled and twined about in a distressfully confusing way, all around him.

"Thistledown became frightened, but the more he struggled to free himself the more tangled he became in the golden mesh. At last he saw approaching him what he knew to be a person's hand and his little heart sank within him as he felt this new prison closing about him. The touch of the small hand was very gentle so that not one of Thistledown's feathers was crushed. But he was very much frightened nevertheless, poor little fellow, and closed his eyes tight for a minute.

"When he dared to open them again he found himself being surveyed very seriously by a pair of big blue eyes.

"'Now, sir,' said the little girl (I am sure you have guessed before now that Thistledown's golden prison was a little girl's curls), 'Now, sir,'

she said, 'before I let you go, you must tell me a story, please.'

"She was a very polite little girl and although she knew that she held Thistledown in her power and that he simply had to do whatever she told him to, whether he wanted to or not, still she said 'sir' and 'please'

when she asked for her story, for she was a very polite little girl.

"The politeness pleased Thistledown-as nice manners always do please every one-but his little wits could not think of anything like a story.

"'I'm afraid I don't know any story,' he replied, trying to be as polite as the little girl.

"'Oh, yes, you do. You're sure to,' she declared, with a grave little nod of her head. 'Tell me about your ad-ven-tures!'

"This was a very big word for such a little girl, but she got it out quite correctly. Besides, she knew very well what the word meant, because she had seen it so often on the back of a book on her sister's book-shelf. 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.'

"Thistledown squirmed and wriggled and began to grow warm and cross.

"'I don't know any stories. And I never had any adventures-except once,'

he added, remembering something all at once.

"'Oh, please do tell me about it,' coaxed the little girl.

"She looked so pretty, and besides, she held him so firmly, that Thistledown saw that the sooner he told his story the sooner he would be free, so he began at once:

"'It happened so long ago that I may forget parts, but I'll tell it the best I know how. I was flying home from a party one afternoon and as it was almost dark I was in a good deal of a hurry. Pretty soon, down at the edge of a field of tall gra.s.ses, I saw an old firefly poking about as if he were looking for something. I stopped to see what was the matter, for it was too dark to hope to find anything, and the old firefly's lantern gave out hardly any light at all.

"'I supposed his light was dim because the old fellow was too lazy to make it shine brighter. I had seen the gnomes blowing up their forge fires with a pair of bellows to make them burn brighter and I supposed the firefly's lantern worked the same way. So I got behind the old fellow as he stooped to look under a clump of violet leaves, and I gave a quick, sharp little blow-pouf-like that, at his lantern. But what do you suppose happened? It went out!

"'I was terribly surprised and a bit frightened, for that horrid old firefly thought that I had done it on purpose. He whirled around before I could spread my wings, and caught hold of me.

"'"You wicked, wicked little sprite!" he exclaimed, almost squeezing the breath out of me. "How dared you, oh, how dared you!"