"Just half way up to my knee," said the boy, "but then I have to stand in the deepest part!"
"Ah, that's where we have got our wet feet!" said the old man; "I ought now to tell you a fairy tale, but I don't know any more!"
"But you can make up one," said the little boy. "Mother says that you can make a story out of everything you look at or touch!"
"Yes, but those tales and stories are no good; no, the real ones come of themselves—they knock at my forehead and say, 'Here I am!'"
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THE LID GRADUALLY LIFTED ITSELF AND LARGE BRANCHES OF THE ELDER-TREE SHOT FORTH FROM THE URN, EVEN THROUGH THE SPOUT.
"Will one knock there soon?" asked the little boy, and his mother laughed, put the elder-tea into the urn and poured boiling water over it.
"Do tell me a fairy tale, do!"
"Yes, if only it would come of itself, but the real fairy tale only comes when it is in the right humor and likes to come— But stop!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There's one! Mind! There's one now in the tea-urn!"
The little boy looked at the tea-urn; the lid gradually lifted itself and large branches of the elder-tree with fresh white elder flowers shot forth from the urn, even through the spout, and spread themselves out on all
