Phantastes, A Faerie Romance

"She'll come by-and-by."

"You will never see her."

"She went home to dies,

"Till the new year."

"Snowdrop!" "'Tis no good

To invite her."

"Primrose is very rude,

"I will bite her."

"Oh, you naughty Pocket!

"Look, she drops her head."

"She deserved it, Rocket,

"And she was nearly dead."

"To your hammock--off with you!"

"And swing alone."

"No one will laugh with you."

"No, not one."

"Now let us moan."

"And cover her o'er."

"Primrose is gone."

"All but the flower."

"Here is a leaf."

"Lay her upon it."

"Follow in grief."

"Pocket has done it."

"Deeper, poor creature!

Winter may come."

"He cannot reach her--

That is a hum."

"She is buried, the beauty!"

"Now she is done."

"That was the duty."

"Now for the fun."

And with a wild laugh they sprang away, most of them towards the

cottage. During the latter part of the song-talk, they had formed

themselves into a funeral procession, two of them bearing poor Primrose,

whose death Pocket had hastened by biting her stalk, upon one of her

own great leaves. They bore her solemnly along some distance, and

then buried her under a tree. Although I say HER I saw nothing but

the withered primrose-flower on its long stalk. Pocket, who had been

expelled from the company by common consent, went sulkily away towards

her hammock, for she was the fairy of the calceolaria, and looked rather

wicked. When she reached its stem, she stopped and looked round. I could

not help speaking to her, for I stood near her. I said, "Pocket, how

could you be so naughty?"

"I am never naughty," she said, half-crossly, half-defiantly; "only if

you come near my hammock, I will bite you, and then you will go away."

"Why did you bite poor Primrose?"

"Because she said we should never see Snowdrop; as if we were not good

enough to look at her, and she was, the proud thing!--served her right!"

"Oh, Pocket, Pocket," said I; but by this time the party which had

gone towards the house, rushed out again, shouting and screaming with

laughter. Half of them were on the cat's back, and half held on by her

fur and tail, or ran beside her; till, more coming to their help, the

furious cat was held fast; and they proceeded to pick the sparks out

of her with thorns and pins, which they handled like harpoons. Indeed,

there were more instruments at work about her than there could have

been sparks in her. One little fellow who held on hard by the tip of

the tail, with his feet planted on the ground at an angle of forty-five

degrees, helping to keep her fast, administered a continuous flow of

admonitions to Pussy.