“I’m not a goblin,” he replied in an angry, shrill voice, like the wind whistling through a keyhole. “It is very rude of you to call me a goblin—a nasty thing who lives under the earth, and only cares for gold and silver. I’m a faery—a very celebrated faery indeed.” “But you wear a beard,” I said doubtfully; “faeries don’t wear beards.” “Not all faeries,” he answered, with dignity, jumping down from his swaying flower stem; “but I do, because I am the librarian of King Oberon.” “Dear me! I did not know he had a library. Do let me see it!” “You see it now,” said the librarian, waving his hand; “look at all the books.” I looked round, but saw nothing except a circle of trees, whose great boughs, meeting overhead, made a kind of leafy roof, through which could be seen the faint, rosy flush of the sunset sky. The ground, as I said before, was covered with daisy-sprinkled turf, and there was a still pool of shining water in the centre, upon the bosom of which floated large white lilies. “I must say I don’t see anything except leaves,” I said, after a pause. “Well—those are the books.” “Oh, are they! Well, I know books have leaves, but I didn’t know leaves were books.” The faery looked puzzled. “You must have some faery blood in you,” he said at length, “or you would never have found your way into this forest; but you don’t seem to have enough of the elfin nature to see all the wonders of Faeryland.” “Oh, do let me see the wonders of Faeryland!” I asked eagerly; “now that I am here, I want to see everything.” “No doubt you do,” retorted the faery, with a provoking smile; “but I don’t know if the King will let you—however, I’ll ask him when he wakes.” “Is he asleep?” I said in astonishment; “why, it’s day-time.” “It’s day-time with you, not with us,” answered the librarian; “the night is the day of the faeries—and see, there’s the sun rising.” Looking up through the fretwork of boughs and leaves, I saw the great silver shield of the moon trembling in the dark blue sky, from whence all the sunset colours had died away. “But that’s the moon,” I cried, laughing. “The moon is our sun, stupid,” he said tartly. “I think the King will be awake now, so I’ll ask him if you can see the books.” He vanished,—I don’t know how; for, though I did not take my eyes off him, he seemed to fade away, and in his place I saw the green leaves and slender stem of a flower, with the Canterbury bell nodding on the top. The only thing I could do was to wait, so I sat down again on the fallen tree, and amused myself with looking round to see what kind of creatures lived in Faeryland. The night was very still,—no sound of cricket or bird, not even the whisper of the wind, or the splash of water,—all was silent, and the moon, looking down through the leaves, flooded the glade with a cold, pale light, turning the still waters of the pool to a silver mirror, upon which slept the great white lilies.