The Zankiwank and the Bletherwitch/Part 2

by Shafto Justin Adair Fitz-Gerald

 

Part II

The Fairies’ Feather and
Flower Land

 

Faëry elves,Whose midnight revels, by a forest sideOr fountain, some belated peasant sees,Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moonSits arbitress.

Milton.

O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you:She is the fairies’ midwife; and she comesIn shape no bigger than an agate-stoneOn the fore-finger of an alderman,Drawn with a train of little atomies,Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.

Shakespeare.

The Fairies’ Feather and Flower Land

How long Maude and Willie had been rocking in the cradle of the deep they could not tell, nor how long it took them to steam through the Straits of Ballambangjan, for everything was exceptionally bleak and blank to them. By the way, if you cannot find the Straits of Ballambangjan in your Geography or on the Map, you should consult the first sailor you meet, and he will give you as much information on the subject as any boy or girl need require.

Both children experienced that curious sensation of feeling asleep while they were wide awake, and feeling wide awake when they imagined themselves to be asleep, just as one does feel sometimes in the early morning, when the sun is beginning to peep through the blinds, and the starlings are chattering, and the sparrows are tweeting under the eaves, outside the window.

They were no longer on the vessel that had borne them away from Fableland, and the approach of the Nargalnannacus, a fearsome creature whom nobody has yet seen, although most of us may not have heard about him.

The obliging Zankiwank was with them, and when they looked round they found themselves in a square field festooned with the misty curtains of the Elfin Dawn.

“Of course,” said the Zankiwank, “this is Midsummer Day, and very soon it will be Midsummer Night, and you will see some wonders that will outwonder all the wonders that wonderful people have ever wondered both before and afterwards. Listen to the Flower-Fairies—not the garden flowers, but the wild-flowers; they will sing you a song, while I beat time—not that there is any real need to beat Time, because he is a most

respectable person, though he always contrives to beat us.”

Both children would have liked to argue out this speech of the Zankiwank because it puzzled them, and they felt it would not parse properly. However, as just at that moment the Elfin Orchestra appeared, they sat on the grass and listened:—

 

The Elfin Dawn.

This is the Elfin Dawn,When ev’ry Fay and Faun, Trips o’er the earth with joy and mirth,And Pleasure takes the maun.Night’s noon stars coyly peep,Over dale and dene and deep, And Fairies fair float through the air,Love’s festival to keep.

  We dance and sing in the Welkin Ring,  While Heather Bells go Ding-dong-ding!   To greet the Elfin Dawn.   The Flower-fairies spread each wing,  And trip about with mincing ging,   Upon the magic lawn.

And so we frisk and play,Like mortals, in the day; From acorn cup we all wake upTitania to obey.We never, never die,And this the reason why, Of Fancy’s art we are the partThat lives eternalie.

  We dance and sing in the Welkin Ring,  While Heather Bells go Ding-dong-ding!   To greet the Elfin Dawn.  The Flower-fairies spread each wing,  And trip about with mincing ging,   Upon the magic lawn.

“They keep very good time, don’t they?” said the Zankiwank to the children, who were completely entranced with pleasure and surprise.

“Lovely, lovely,” was all they could say.

Every wild flower they could think of, and every bird of the air, was to be seen in this

beautiful place with the purling stream running down the centre, crossed by innumerable rustic bridges, while far away they could see a fountain ever sending upward its cooling sprays of crystal water.

“I think I shall spend my honeymoon here,” said the Zankiwank. “I have already bought a honeycomb

for my bride. I am so impatient to have her by my side that I have dispatched the Jackarandajam and Mr Swinglebinks in a four-wheeled cab to fetch her. When the Bletherwitch arrives I will introduce you, and you shall both be bridesmaids!”

“But I can’t be a bridesmaid, you know,” corrected Willie.

“Oh yes, you can. You can be anything here you like. You only have to eat some Fern seeds and you become invisible, and nobody would know you. It is so simple, and saves a lot of argument. And you should never argue about anything unless you know nothing about it, then you are sure to win.”

“But,” interrupted Maude, “how can you know nothing about anything?”

“’Tis the easiest thing out of the world,” said the Zankiwank. “What is nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Precisely. Nothing is nothing; but what is better than nothing?”

“Something.”

“Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Where is your logic? Nothing is better than something! I’ll prove it:—

“Nothing is sweeter than honey,Nothing’s more bitter than gall,Nothing that’s comic is funny,Nothing is shorter than tall.”

“That is nonsense and nothing to do with the case,” exclaimed Maude.

“Nonsense? Nonsense? Did you say nonsense?”

“Of course she did,” said Willie, “and so do I.”

“Nonsense! To me? Do you forget what my name is?”

“Oh, no, nothing easier than to remember it. You are the Great Zankiwank.”

“Thank you, I am satisfied. I thought you had forgotten. I am not cross with you.”

Maude and Willie vowed they would not cross him for anything, let alone nothing, and so the Zankiwank was appeased and offered to give them the correct answer to his own unanswerable conundrum. Do you know what a conundrum is though? I will tell you while the Zankiwank is curling his whiskers:—

A conundrum is an impossible question with an improbable answer. Think it over the next time you read “Robinson Crusoe.”

“Nothing is better than a good little girl;
But a jam tart is better than nothing,
Therefore a jam tart is better than the best little girl alive.”

“What do you think of that?” said the Zankiwank.

“I have heard something like it before. But that is nothing. Anyhow I would much rather be a little girl than a jam tart—because a jam tart must be sour because it’s tart, and a little girl is always sweet,” promptly replied Willie, kissing his sister Maude on the nose—but that was an accident, because she moved at the wrong moment.

“You distress me,” said the Zankiwank. “Suppose I were to try to shoot Folly as it flies, and hit a Fool’s Cap and Bells instead, what would you say?”

“I should say that you had shot at nothing and missed it.”

At this Maude and Willie laughed girlsterously and boysterously, and the Zankiwank wept three silent tears in the teeth of the wind and declared that nothing took his fancy so

much as having nothing to take. So they took him by the arm and begged him, as he was so clever and had mentioned the name, to take them to Fancy’s dwelling-place.

“I think Fancy must dwell amongst the wild flowers—the sweet beautiful wild flowers that grow in such charming variety of disorder.” Saying this, Maude took Willie’s hand and urged the Zankiwank forward.

Before the Zankiwank could reply, a company of fairies, all dressed in pink and green, leapt from the petals of the flowers and danced forward, singing to the buzz of the bees and the breaking note of the yellow-ammer with his bright gamboge breast:—

Where is Fancy Bred.

O would you know where Fancy dwells? And where she flaunts her head?Come to the daisy-spangled dells, And seek her in her bed.For Fancy is a maiden sweet, With all a maiden’s whims;As quick as thought—as Magic fleet— Like gossamer she skims.

O seek among the birds and bees, And search among the buds;In babbling brook, in silver seas, Or in the raging floods. Gaze upward to the starry vault; Or ask the golden sun:Though ever you will be at fault Before your task is done.

O would you know where Fancy dwells? It is not in the flow’rs;It is not in the chime of bells, Nor in the waking hours.It is not in the learnëd brain, Nor in the busy mart;It lives not with the false and vain, But in the tender heart.

As mysteriously as they had appeared, the fairies vanished again, and only the rustling of the leaves and the twittering of the birds making melody all around, reminded the children that they were on enchanted ground. Now and then the bull-frogs would set up a croaking chorus in some marshy land far behind, but as no one could distinguish what they said it did not matter.

O to be here for ever,With the fairy band,O to wake up neverFrom this dreamy land!For the humblest plant is weightedWith some new perfume,And the scent of the air drops like some prayerAnd mingles with the bloom,O to be here for ever, and never, never wake.

Was that the music of the spheres they wondered? Somehow it seemed as though their own hearts’ echo played to the words that fell so soft, like a fair sweet tender melody of fairies long ago.

The Zankiwank had left them again, to send another telegram, perhaps, and Maude and Willie went rambling through the meadow and down by the brook, where they gathered nuts and berries and sat them down to enjoy a rural feast.

Tiny elves and fairies were constantly coming and going, some driving in wee chariots with ants for horses and oak leaves for carriages. And while all the other flowers seemed quite gay and merry in the sunshine, the Poppies were nodding their scarlet heads and gently dozing, what time some wild Holly Hocks beat to and fro murmuring—

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! While the corn is ready to reap.Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! And the lightest hours a-creep.Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! On the edge of the misty deep.

As they lay upon the bank, to their surprise a procession of birds came along, the two foremost being fine handsome thrushes, carrying a large banner of ivy leaves, on which was inscribed, in letters of red clover, the following legend:—

Bean-Feast of Birds
from London and
the Suburbs.

“Fancy,” said Maude, “all the birds of London Town come to Fairy-land for a change of air!”

“And why not?” asked a saucy Cock-sparrow. “We can’t be always singing the same song, so we come here for a change of air, and of course when we get a change of air we return with new melodies. If you were to Reed your books properly you would know that the Pipes of our Organs—our vocal Organs—want tuning occasionally.”

Then, without any warning, they all struck up a new song, and marvel of marvels, instead of merely singing like ordinary birds, they sang the words as well. But before giving you the lyric that they voiced so melodiously I must tell you the names of some of the birds they saw, and if you live in London or any large town you will perhaps know several of them by sight, as well as by cognomen. First in the throng were the Mistle-Thrushes and the song Thrushes; the Redwing and the Fieldfare, the Blackbird and the Redstart, and the Redbreast with faithful Jenny Wren; the large family of Titmouse and the merry Chiff-chaff, with his pleasant little song of “Chiff-chaff; chiff-chaff; chiv-chave.” The humoursome Wagtails and that rare visitant the Waxwing, hopped along together, followed by the Swallows and the Martins, and a whole posse of Finches of various orders, particularly the Chaffinches who were joking with the Linnets.

Then came the noisy Starlings, the Magpies and the Sparrows chattering incessantly and evidently talking scandal. The sly Jackdaws and the Ravens looking as sleek as Sunday Sextons, but evidently plotting mischief, were also present, in close proximity to the Rooks and the Crows, who were well able to take care of their own caws. Afterwards came the Swifts and the Larks up to all sorts of games. A few Woodpeckers joined their feathered friends, and one Cuckoo was there, because Willie heard him, but he kept somewhere in the background as usual. Owls and Bats and Millards with Wigeons and Pigeons brought up the rear with a few Plovers, including the Lapwing. Jack Snipe came tumbling after in a hurry, with a stranger called the Whimbrel and a Puffin out of breath. There were other birds as well, but I don’t think you would know them if I mentioned them. Maude and Willie did not, and they were quite authorities on ornithology, and perhaps you are not.

 

The Song of the Birds.

We are the birds of London Town, Come out to take the air,To change our coats of grey and brown, And trim our feathers rare.

For London fogs so very black Our tempers disarrange,And so we skip with piping trip, To have our yearly change.

   Pee wit! Tu! whoo!    How do you do?   Tweet! tweet! chip! chip!   Chiff! chaff! chiff chay!   Weet wee! weet weet! sweet way!         Cuckoo!

We sing our songs in London Town, To make the workers gay;And seeds and crumbs they throw us down— ’Tis all we ask as pay.

We make them think of fields all green And long-forgotten things;Of far-off hopes and dreams a-sheen And love with golden wings.

   Pee wit! Tu! whoo!    How do you do?   Tweet! tweet! chip! chip!   Chiff! chaff! chiff chay!   Weet wee! weet weet! sweet way!         Cuckoo!

After this very entertaining song each bird stood on one leg, spread one wing, and joined partners for one of the prettiest dances you ever saw. It was called the Birds’ Quadrille, and was so charmingly executed that even the flowers left their beds and borders to look on—the fairies peeping meanwhile from the buds to join in the general enjoyment. The voices of the flowers were lifted in gentle cadences to the rhythm of the feathered dancers’ featly twists and turns.

How happy the children felt in this beautiful place with all Nature vieing to show her sweetest charms. And how rich and rare were the gems of foliage and tree and humble creeping plants. How easy to forget everything—but joy—in this fairy paradise that Fancy so deftly pictured for

them! Could there be anything sad in Flower Land? They could not believe it possible, and yet when a tiny little fairy stepped from a cluster of wild flowers and sang them the song of the Lily and the Rose, diamond tears stole down the cheeks of the little lass and the little lad.

 

The Rose and the Lily.

A tender Rose, so pretty and sleek, Loved a Lily pure and white;And paid his court with breathings meek— Watching o’er her day and night.While the Lily bowed her virgin head, The Rose his message sent;The Lily clung to her lover red, And gave her shy consent.

   The Violets cooed, and the Hare-bells rang,    And the Jasmine shook with glee;   While the birds high in the branches sang,    “Forget not true to be.”

Dear Flora came the wedding to see,— The Cowslips had decked the bride,The Red Rose trembled so nervously— His blushes he could not hide.The Daisies opened their wee white eyes, The Pinks came down in rows;“Forget-me-not!” the Lily cries, “My own, my sweet Moss Rose!”

   The Violets cooed, and the Hare-bells rang,    And the Jasmine shook with glee;   While the birds high in the branches sang,    “O may you happy be!”

The Flower-fairies were gathered there, And every plant as well,To attend the wedding of this pair So sweet that no pen can tell.But a cruel wind came sweeping by— The Lily drooped and died. …Then the Red Rose gave one tearful sigh, And joined his Lily bride.

   The Violets wept, and the Hare-bells sobbed,    The Myrtle and Jasmine sighed;   The birds were hushed as their hearts all throbbed    At the death of the Rose’s bride.

Before the children had time to grow too sorrowful, there was a fluttering in the air and a rushing among the plants and flowers as the Zankiwank bounded into their presence, cutting so many capers that they were glad they were not to have mutton for dinner, as certainly all the capers would be destroyed.

The Zankiwank was in very high spirits, and gleefully announced that the Court of the Fairies, with the Queen, was coming, as Sally who lived in somebody’s alley had just informed him. Then he burst out singing to a tune, which I daresay you all know, the following foolish words:—

Of all the flowers that are so smart, There’s none like Daffydilly! She’d be the darling of my heart, But she has grown so silly!There is no wild flower in the land That’s half so tame as Daisy;To her I’d give my heart and hand, But fear I’d drive her crazy!

And then there is the Cabbage Rose, Also the China Aster;But Buttercup with yellow nose Would cause jealous disaster.Forget-me-not, O Violet dear! Primrose, you know my passion!For all the plants afar—anear I court in flowery fashion!

“Oh, please be serious!” cried Willie. “What is the matter with you, Mr Zankiwank?”

You will perceive that Willie and Maude were quite at home in their new surroundings, and nothing seemed to surprise them one whit, not even the unexpected which they constantly anticipated.

The Zankiwank only asked permission to send one more telegram to the Bletherwitch, and then he condescended to inform them that Queen Titania was about to pay a visit to the Flowers and the Birds, and sure enough, before he had done speaking, Titania arrived all the way from Athens, with a full train of fairies and elves, accompanied by a fairy band playing fairy music. Robin Goodfellow skipped in advance, while Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed attended on the lovely Queen.

“Indeed, indeed this must be a Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

“Indeed and indeed then it is,” mocked the impudent Robin Goodfellow. “The fairies are not dead yet; and they never will die while good little girls and boys, and poets with sweet imaginations, live. But quick, let not the Queen see you! Eat of these Fern Seeds and you will become invisible even to the fairies. They are special seeds of my own growing and warranted to last as long as I choose.”

So Maude and Willie ate of the Fern Seeds and became invisible, even to the Zankiwank, who was dreadfully distressed and went about calling them by name. In a spirit of mischief Willie pinched his exceedingly thin legs, making him jump as high as an April rain-bow, and causing him to be called to order by the Court Usher.

“And now,” said Titania, waving her wand and calling the Flowers and Birds to her Court, “let the Jackdaw sing his well-known War Song.”

“If you please, your majesty, I have left the music at home and forgotten the words,” pleaded the Jackdaw.

“Very well, then

sing it without either or you shall not have a new coat until the Spring.”

So the Jackdaw stepped forth and sang as below, while the Rook irreverently cleared his throat above for his friend, and cried “Caw! Caw!”

The Jackdaw’s Jest.

If peaches grew on apple trees, And frogs were made of glass;And bulls and cows were turned to bees, And rooks were made of grass;If boys and girls were made of figs, If figs were made of dates,Upon the sands they’d dance like grigs With bald and oval pates.

If mortals had got proper sense And were not quite so mad;Their mood would make them more intense, To make each other glad;If only they would understand The things that no one knows, They’d live like fairies in the land, And never come to blows.

“That’s a very nice War Song—it’s so peaceful and soothing,” spake the Queen. “And now call the Poets from Freeland. This is the time for them to renew their licences, though I greatly fear that they have been taking so many liberties of late that any licence I can give them will prove superfluous.”

“Superfluous! Superfluous! That is a good word,” muttered the Zankiwank. “I wonder what it means?” Whereupon he went and asked Robin Goodfellow and all the other Fairies, but as nobody knew, it did not matter, and the Poets arriving at that moment he thought of a number and sat on a toadstool.

Maude recognised several of the Poets who came to have their licences renewed—she had heard of “poetic licence” before, but never dreamed that one had to get the unwritten freedom from Fairyland. But so it was. Several of the Poets seemed to be exorbitant in their demands, and wanted to make their poems all licence, but this Titania would not consent to, so they went away singing, all in tune too, a little piece that Robin Goodfellow said was a Rondel:—

Life is but a mingled song, Sung in divers keys;Sweet and tender, brave and strong, As the heart agrees.

Naught but love each maid will please When emotions throng; Life is but a mingled song,Sung in divers keys.

Youth and age nor deem it wrong, Sing with joyous ease,That your days you may prolong Freed from Care’s decrees.Life is but a mingled song Sung in divers keys.

So on their way they went rejoicing—saying pretty things to the fairies, the flowers and the birds, for they are their best friends you know, and they love all Nature with a vast and all-embracing, all-enduring love.

One singer as he went along chanted half sadly:—

To tell of other’s joys the poet sings; To tell of Love, its sweets and eke its pain;The tenderest songs his magic fancy strings, Of Love, perchance, that he may never gain.Hearts may not break and passion may be weak,But O the grief of Love that dare never speak!

A light-hearted bard then took up the cue and carolled these lines:—

There’s so much prose in life that now and then, A tender song of pity stirs the heart,A simple lay of love from fevered pen, Makes in some soul the unshed tear-drops start.Sing, poets! sing for aye your sweetest strain,For life without its poetry were vain!

Then they all sang together a song of May, although Queen Titania had declared that it was Midsummer. Perhaps her Midsummer lasts all the year round:—

 When Winter’s gone to rest, And Spring is our dear guest;  The Merry May, at break of day, Comes in gay garlands drest. The brightest smiles she brings— Of sweetest hopes she sings  And trips a-pace with dainty grace And lightest fairy wings.

Joy is the song all Nature sighs,Love is the light in maidens’ eyes, May is love alway:The budding branch and nodding treeJoin in the revels and bow with glee To greet the Virgin May.

While songsters choose and mate,And woo their brides in state, The youth and maid stroll through the gladeThe birds to emulate! Then comes the Queen of May,To hold her court and sway, While gallant blades salute the maids,And whisper secrets gay.

Love is the song all Nature sighs,While peace gleams in each maiden’s eyes, Youth is for joy alway!The laughing rose and lily fairTheir fragrance shed upon the air, As though ’twere ever May.

As the Poets went on their happy way, the last one to depart turned to where Maude was standing, and though he could not possibly see her, said gently:—

O grant you, little maiden, your thoughts be aye
sincere, Your dreams turn into actions,Your pleasures know no sear: Your life be flowers and sunshine,Your days be free from tear.

How happy it made her! And what beauti-ful things these poets always thought of and said!

“Now, Peaseblossom and Mustard Seed, you may sing that little song that I made for you when we were floating up near the Moon, and then we shall soon have to depart as we have so many calls to make this Midsummer Night.”

Neither Willie nor Maude could understand how it could be Midsummer Night, because Midsummer Day was such a long way off—quite six weeks, for this was only yet the month of May. But they did not say anything, because Robin Goodfellow was looking at them, and they knew they were invisible, because they could not even feel themselves—which is a curious sensation, when you come to think of it.

Now, this is the song that Peaseblossom and Mustard Seed sang together in unison—the fairies, led by Robin Goodfellow, joining in the chorus:—

 

Will you walk into the Garden.

Will you walk into the garden? Said the Poppy to the Rose,Your tender heart don’t harden,— Do not elevate your nose.For the Gilly-flower has sent us All because of your perfume,And the Box a case has lent us, To make a little room.

   So Rosey! Rosey! sweet little posy    Come to our garden fête,   And our little Cock-roaches will lend
you their coaches,    So that you mayn’t be late.

All the Waterblinks are waiting, Just beneath the Dogwood’s shade; While the Teazle’s loudly prating To the Madder’s little maid!The old Cranberry grows tartish All about a Goosefoot Corn,But the Primrose, dressed quite smartish, Will explain it’s but a thorn.

   So Rosey! Rosey! sweet little posy    Come to our garden fête;   Our naughty young nettles shall be on
their fettles,    All stinging things to bate.

Now for tea there’s Perrywinkles And some Butterwort and Sedge,House-leeks and Bird’s-nest-binkles, With some Sundew from the hedge,There is Sorrel, Balsam, Mallow, Some Milk Wort and Mare’s Tail too,With some Borage and some Sallow, Figworts and Violets blue.

   So Rosey! Rosey! sweet little posy,    Come to our garden fête,    And the Iris and Crocus shall sing us
and joke us    Some humorous things sedate.

“That’s all very well,” exclaimed the Zankiwank. “Roses are always delightful, especially the Cabbage Roses, because you can eat them for breakfast, but every rose has its drawback … Ho! and it’s thorn,” he added, dancing with pain, for at that moment several rose bushes he was passing by gave him a good pricking.

“Ah!” said Queen Titania, “that is not the way to look at the beautiful things of life. It is because the thorns have roses that we should be thankful, and not find fault because the roses have thorns.”

“That is a sentiment that I can endorse—it is a true bill, and almost as good as one of my own,” replied Robin Goodfellow saucily; “and now let us wander through the Florange grove and gather some Moranges and Lemons.”

Neither Maude nor Willie had heard of Floranges or Moranges, and wondered what sort of fruit

they could be, when their attention was drawn once more to Queen Titania and her court of fairies, who were all seated beneath the greenwood tree eating puddings and pies that Mustard Seed and Peaseblossom and Cobweb were making for them, chanting, as they cooked the pastry by the fire of their own eloquence, this doggerel:—

First you take a little orange, And you squeeze out all the pips;Then you add a crimson florange, Which you cut up into chips.Then you stir them in a porringe, With your tiny finger tips;And you have the finest morange Ever known to mortal lips.

How Willie and Maude longed to taste a morange! The Zankiwank evidently enjoyed the one he had, for he said it tasted just like mango, ice cream, blackberries and plum tart all mixed up together, so that it must have been nice.

After the feast Titania said she must be going, as she felt certain that there were some invisible mortals present. She could hear them breathing! At this Robin Goodfellow grew nervous, and the children got frightened lest the Queen should discover and punish them for their temerity.

“Where Christmas pudding’s bliss ’Tis folly to eat pies,”

cried Robin Goodfellow to divert attention and the fairies at the same time, but the Queen was not satisfied, and ordered a special dress train to carry them away again.

At this moment the two children tumbled off nothing into a vacant space, making the Zankiwank scream out—“It must be the Bletherwitch in the clutches of the Nargalnannacus.” But it wasn’t, and if it had not been for Robin Goodfellow’s presence of mind, I am sure I do not know what would have happened. That lively rascal, however, guessing that he had used the wrong seeds, at once stepped forward, and taking Maude and Willie each by the hand, boldly presented them to Her Majesty as being favoured mortals

who were friends of the Zankiwank, and so the Queen received them and asked them more questions than you could find in any school book. None of which they answered, because when they turned round the Queen and all her court had vanished, and only the Zankiwank was to be seen.

The Zankiwank took no notice of them whatever, and behaved just as though he could not see them. They called him by name without arousing his attention, for he was once more writing a telegram, only he did not know where to send it. In the distance Maude could hear the sound of voices, and she declared she could recognise the Queen singing, though Willie said it must have been her imagination because he could not. However, this is what Maude said she heard:—

Dear little maid, may joy be thine As through your life you go;Let Truth and Peace each act design, That Hope turn not to woe.

Dream if you will in maiden prime, But let each dream be true;For idle hopes waste golden time, That won’t return to you.

In after years when ways divide, And Love dispels each tear,Know in some breast there will abide A thought for you sincere.

So strive, dear maid, to play your part, With noble aim and deed;Let sweetness ever sway your heart, And so I give you speed.

While Maudie was pondering over the meaning of these words, she was suddenly lifted off her feet, and, when she recovered from the shock, found herself with Willie in a balloon, while down below the Zankiwank was fondly embracing the Jackarandajam, who had just arrived with a whole army of odd-looking people, including Jack-the-Giant-Killer, Tom Thumb, Blue Beard, and all his wives, with Sister Anne, Dick

Whitting, and his black cat, and Tom Tiddler, and about three thousand four hundred and five goblins and sprites, who all commenced running a race up and down the valley from which they were fast speeding.

“Keep the pot a-boiling; keep the pot a-boiling,” bawled the Zankiwank, and away they all went again, helter skelter, in and out, and up and down, like skaters on a rink.

Gradually the balloon altered its course, and instead of going up it went straight ahead to a large inpenetrable wall that seemed to threaten them with destruction; while, to the annoyance of both Maude and Willie, they could hear the revellers down below dancing and singing as though they were in no jeopardy. And if the words had been correct they would have declared that it was the Mariners of England who were singing their own song:—

You sleepy little mortals, High up in a balloon,You soon will pass the portals, Beyond the crescent moon. Then Shadowland will come in view, A dream within a dream;  So keep in your sleep   While we keep up the steam;  While the midnight hours are all a-creep,   And we are all a-beam.

The spirits of the fairies This eve are very bright,For in your nest the mare is Who only rides by night.Into a magic sphere you go, A dream within a dream.  So keep in your sleep,   While we keep up the steam,  For Shadow Land is deep and steep,   And we are all a-beam.

With a bump, and a thump, and a jump, the balloon burst against the wall, and Maude and Willie felt themselves dropping, dropping, dropping, until the Zankiwank bounced up and caught them both in his arms, saying as he rushed forward:—

“Quick, the gates are only open for five seconds once a week, and if we don’t get inside at once we shall be jammed in the door-way.”

So into Shadow Land they tumbled as the porter mumbled and grumbled and shut the gate with a boom and a bang after them.