In these rational days, most people suppose that fairies do not exist; but they are mistaken. The mere fact that fairies have been imagined proves that there are fairies; for fancy, in her oddest freaks, never paints any thing which has no existence. She merely puts invisible agencies into visible forms, and embodies spiritual influences in material facts. It seems a wild fiction when we read of beautiful young maidens floating in gossamer, and radiant with jewels, who suddenly change into mocking old hags, or jump off into some slimy pool, in the form of a frog; or like the fair Melusina, doomed to become a fish on certain days of the year, and those who happened to see her in that plight could never again see her as the Fair Melusina. Yet who that has grown from youth to manhood, who that has been in love and out of love, has not found the fairies of his life playing him just such tricks? In the fascinating ballet of Giselle, so poetic in conception, and so gracefully expressed in music, there is deep and tender meaning for all who have lived long, or lived much. Is not Memory a fairy spirit, like Giselle, dancing round graves, hovering between us and the stars, flitting across our woodland rambles, throwing us garlands and love-tokens from the past, coming to us in dreams, so real that we clasp our loved ones, and gliding away when morning gleams on the material world? Oh yes there _are_ fairies, both good and bad; and they are with us according as we obey or disobey their laws of being. One, with whom I made acquaintance as soon as I could run alone, has visited me ever since; though sometimes she pouts and hides herself, and will not soon come back. I am always sad when she is gone; for she is a wonder-working little sprite, and she takes all my wealth away with her. If you were to gaze on a field of dandelions, if _she_ were not at your elbow, you would merely think they were pretty posies, and would make excellent greens for dinner. But if _she_ touches you, and renders you clairvoyant, they will surprise you with their golden beauty, and every blossom will radiate a halo. Sometimes she fills the whole air with rainbows, as if Nature were out for a dance, with all her ribbons on. A sup of water, taken from a little brook, in the hollow of her hand, has made me more merry than would a goblet of wine. She has often filled my apron with opals, emeralds, and sapphires, and I was never weary of looking at them; but those who had wandered away from the fairy, and forgotten her treasures, sneered at my joy, and said, “Fie upon thee! Wilt thou _always_ be a child? They are nothing but pebbles.”