Phantastes, A Faerie Romance

I opened the door, and stepped out. The moment my foot touched the

smooth sward, I seemed to issue from the door of an old barn on my

father's estate, where, in the hot afternoons, I used to go and lie

amongst the straw, and read. It seemed to me now that I had been asleep

there. At a little distance in the field, I saw two of my brothers at

play. The moment they caught sight of me, they called out to me to come

and join them, which I did; and we played together as we had done years

ago, till the red sun went down in the west, and the gray fog began

to rise from the river. Then we went home together with a strange

happiness. As we went, we heard the continually renewed larum of a

landrail in the long grass. One of my brothers and I separated to a

little distance, and each commenced running towards the part whence the

sound appeared to come, in the hope of approaching the spot where the

bird was, and so getting at least a sight of it, if we should not be

able to capture the little creature. My father's voice recalled us from

trampling down the rich long grass, soon to be cut down and laid aside

for the winter. I had quite forgotten all about Fairy Land, and the

wonderful old woman, and the curious red mark.

My favourite brother and I shared the same bed. Some childish dispute

arose between us; and our last words, ere we fell asleep, were not of

kindness, notwithstanding the pleasures of the day. When I woke in the

morning, I missed him. He had risen early, and had gone to bathe in the

river. In another hour, he was brought home drowned. Alas! alas! if we

had only gone to sleep as usual, the one with his arm about the other!

Amidst the horror of the moment, a strange conviction flashed across my

mind, that I had gone through the very same once before.

I rushed out of the house, I knew not why, sobbing and crying bitterly.

I ran through the fields in aimless distress, till, passing the old

barn, I caught sight of a red mark on the door. The merest trifles

sometimes rivet the attention in the deepest misery; the intellect has

so little to do with grief. I went up to look at this mark, which I did

not remember ever to have seen before. As I looked at it, I thought I

would go in and lie down amongst the straw, for I was very weary with

running about and weeping. I opened the door; and there in the cottage

sat the old woman as I had left her, at her spinning-wheel.