Here, to my great pleasure, all was life and bustle. There was still light enough from the day to see a little; and the pale half-moon, halfway to the zenith, was reviving every moment. The whole garden was like a carnival, with tiny, gaily decorated forms, in groups, assemblies, processions, pairs or trios, moving stately on, running about wildly, or sauntering hither or thither. From the cups or bells of tall flowers, as from balconies, some looked down on the masses below, now bursting with laughter, now grave as owls; but even in their deepest solemnity, seeming only to be waiting for the arrival of the next laugh. Some were launched on a little marshy stream at the bottom, in boats chosen from the heaps of last year’s leaves that lay about, curled and withered. These soon sank with them; whereupon they swam ashore and got others. Those who took fresh rose-leaves for their boats floated the longest; but for these they had to fight; for the fairy of the rose-tree complained bitterly that they were stealing her clothes, and defended her property bravely. “You can’t wear half you’ve got,” said some. “Never you mind; I don’t choose you to have them: they are my property.” “All for the good of the community!” said one, and ran off with a great hollow leaf. But the rose-fairy sprang after him (what a beauty she was! only too like a drawing-room young lady), knocked him heels-over-head as he ran, and recovered her great red leaf. But in the meantime twenty had hurried off in different directions with others just as good; and the little creature sat down and cried, and then, in a pet, sent a perfect pink snowstorm of petals from her tree, leaping from branch to branch, and stamping and shaking and pulling. At last, after another good cry, she chose the biggest she could find, and ran away laughing, to launch her boat amongst the rest. But my attention was first and chiefly attracted by a group of fairies near the cottage, who were talking together around what seemed a last dying primrose. They talked singing, and their talk made a song, something like this: “Sister Snowdrop died Before we were born.” “She came like a bride In a snowy morn.” “What’s a bride?” “What is snow? “Never tried.” “Do not know.” “Who told you about her?” “Little Primrose there Cannot do without her.” “Oh, so sweetly fair!” “Never fear, She will come, Primrose dear.” “Is she dumb?” “She’ll come by-and-by.” “You will never see her.” “She went home to die, “Till the new year.” “Snowdrop!” “‘Tis no good To invite her.” “Primrose is very rude, “I will bite her.” “Oh, you naughty Pocket! “Look, she drops her head.” “She deserved it, Rocket, “And she was nearly dead.” “To your hammock—off with you!” “And swing alone.” “No one will laugh with you.” “No, not one.”