And your little twinkling feet,
O my Pretty and my Sweet!
Should be shod with silver neat
(Swinging high, swinging low)--
Shod with silver slippers neat
(Swinging, oh!).
But I'm not a fairy, Pet
(Swinging high, swinging low),
Am not even a king, as yet
(Swinging, oh!).
So all that I can do
Is to kiss your little shoe,
And to make a queen of you
(Swinging high, swinging low),
Make a fairy queen of you
(Swinging, oh!).
CHAPTER VI.
HARTLEY'S GLEN.
How many girls, among all the girls who may read this little book, have
seen with their own eyes Hartley's Glen? Not one, perhaps, save Brynhild
and the Rosicrucian, for whom the book is written. But the others must
try to see it with my eyes, for it is a fair place and a sweet as any on
earth. Behind the house, and just under the brow of the little hill that
shelters it, a narrow path dips down to the right, and goes along for a
bit, with a dimpled clover-meadow on the one hand, and a stone wall, all
warm with golden and red-brown lichens, on the other. Follow this, and
you come to a little gateway, beyond which is a thick plantation of
larches, with one grim old red cedar keeping watch over them. If he
regards you favorably, you may pass on, down the narrow path that winds
among the larches, whose feathery finger-tips brush your cheek and try
to hold you back, as if they willed not that you should go farther, to
see the wonders which they can never behold.
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