the Fairies Prisoner 
% 
■ACROSE 
ILLUSTRATED BY 
CHARLES ROBINSON 
HIS is the strange story of a 
thoughtless boy who was kept 
a prisoner for a whole week 
in the fairy wood. 
Robin lived with his parents 
in a white farm-house on the 
crest of a hill. The fields and 
gardens of the farm sloped gently to the bottom 
of the hill, and were there divided from the 
wood by a fence. Often had Robin been 
warned by his mother not to go into the wood. 
“ For the trees grow very thickly there, and 
if you got lost/’ she said, “ goodness knows 
what would happen to you ! ” 
But one morning, as Robin stood looking 
over the fence into the dark wood, he thought 
he would put one foot over on the other side 
to see if it felt any different, for he had heard 
that it was an enchanted wood. Of course 
it didn’t feel any different, so Robin sat on the 
fence and hung both feet over and waited to 
see what would happen. Nothing happened 
at all. He jumped down and stood holding 
on to the fence with one hand and feeling 
quite brave. 
“ If mother could see me now, I wonder 
what she would say ? ” said Robin to himself. 
A moment later he saw the most beauti- 
ful flower — a wake-robin. Robin had often 
picked them in their own little woods on the 
other side of the hill, but none had ever been 
quite so large and lovely as this one. 
Grasping the stem, Robin pulled it, and 
turned to go home, when he heard the joyous 
carolling of a bird quite near him. Looking 
up, he saw a redbreast perched upon a 
tree. Robin whistled, and the bird, twisting 
his little head, saucily returned the salute. 
Quick as thought Robin dropped his flower 
and, picking up a stone, aimed it at the bird. 
His aim was not true, and the redbreast flew 
away unharmed. But instantly there was an 
angry buzzing sound near him. 
“ Bees are swarming somewhere/’ said 
Robin. 
The sound came nearer and nearer, but he 
saw no bees or other insects. At last he was 
surrounded on all sides by the noise, and, 
feeling something sting him sharply on the 
check, turned to run out of the wood. 
“ Mosquitoes/’ said Robin, aloud. “ Bother 
them ! They spoil all one’s fun.” 
“ Mosquitoes, indeed ! ” said an angry little 
voice quite close to his ear. “ Nothing of 
the sort.” 
The voice was so tiny that it sounded no 
louder than the hum of a mosquito ; but, 
though angry, it was still quite sweet. Only 
fairies can scold properly and yet keep their 
voices sweet. Bewildered, Robin gazed all 
about him. 
“ Fairies,” said the same clear little voice, 
“ let us become visible and punish this wicked 
mortal.” 
And all at once the air was full of little 
winged creatures, tiny, beautiful things, all 
