“I doubt it,” replied the King of Faery. “With you it is all greed of money, pursuit of pleasure, and desire of learning; there is no room in your lives to believe that beings like us exist; we can be turned to no practical use, therefore you mortals regard us as unnecessary existences. But while the world moves on, there will always be bright, happy children who will keep our memories fresh and green in their hearts, and perhaps some day, when the world returns to its childlike faith of old, we may once more appear to mortals.” “Meanwhile”—I began. “Meanwhile,” repeated Oberon a little sadly, “you will go back to earth and write down the seven stories you have read in my library; when good children read them they may perhaps find out their hidden meaning, and it will make them wiser and more obedient. Tell your child friends that faeries do nothing without having some good end in view, and if they want to please us, they must try and be noble and good, for there is nothing so hateful in the world as wickedness. And now, mortal, I will permit you to see a faery dance, and then you must leave us for ever.” “For ever?” “Unless,” said the King graciously, “you revisit us in your beautiful dreams. Good-bye, mortal, good-bye: “Though years may bring thee pain and grief, In airy elves still have belief, While thou of earth art denizen. And may thou ever think as truth The lovely idle dreams of youth: This is the Faeries’ benison.” Then from the elfin band rang out sweet, wild music, and on the smooth greensward the merry faeries danced lightly in the pale moonshine. They whirled in and out, swayed into graceful circles, and melted away like foam on the crest of an emerald wave, floated in long wreaths which wavered and broke as breaks the mist on snow-peaked mountains, blended together again in picturesque confusion, while sweet and shrill sounded the weird music, blown through the warm air of the summer night. The perfume of a thousand flowers arose from the ground, strange blossoms bloomed suddenly under the flying feet of the elves, and round and round the lily throne of gracious Oberon and airy Titania whirled the elfin circle, singing their farewell song to the sweet voices of the birds: “Flashing stars and silver moon Waning in the western skies; Crimson is the east, and soon Will the orb of day arise. Chilly blows the morning breeze, Dewdrops glitter on the lawn; Through the branches of the trees Flushes now the rosy dawn. Idle faery dreams have fled, Not a moment can they wait; Visions of the night are dead, Sleep has barred her ivory gate.