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Updated: May 18, 2025
Sprites of all looks and all hues of all "dimensions, shapes, and mettles," the dwarfish elf and the elegant fay Cobweb commissioned to kill a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle, that Bottom might have the honey-bag Pease-Blossom, who had the less agreeable employment of scratching the weaver's head and that individual fairy who could find the hoard of the squirrel and carry away his nuts with a score of equally merry companions are swarming everywhere and in full employment.
The hedgerows are gay with the full-blown dog-roses, the bells of the bilberries droop down along the wood-side, and the red-hipped bumble bees hum over them. Out of the woodland and up Snaperake Lane I rise to the moorland, and then the sea coast comes in sight, and the longing to know what lies beyond it.
It is a fairy sound as though Mustard-seed were in the hall. Or it might be Pease-blossom rousing up Cobweb in the play, to repel the red-hipped humble-bee. It is so slight a tapping that if I sleep with even one ear inside the covers I will not hear it. The little lad stands in the dim passage to greet me, fully dressed, to reproach me with my tardiness.
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