L. Frank Baum

I am going to tell a story, one of those tales of astonishing
adventures that happened years and years and years ago. Perhaps you
wonder why it is that so many stories are told of "once on a time", and
so few of these days in which we live; but that is easily explained.

In the old days, when the world was young, there were no automobiles
nor flying-machines to make one wonder; nor were there railway trains,
nor telephones, nor mechanical inventions of any sort to keep people
keyed up to a high pitch of excitement. Men and women lived simply and
quietly. They were Nature's children, and breathed fresh air into
their lungs instead of smoke and coal gas; and tramped through green
meadows and deep forests instead of riding in street cars; and went to
bed when it grew dark and rose with the sun—which is vastly different
from the present custom. Having no books to read they told their
adventures to one another and to their little ones; and the stories
were handed down from generation to generation and reverently believed.

Those who peopled the world in the old days, having nothing but their
hands to depend on, were to a certain extent helpless, and so the
fairies were sorry for them and ministered to their wants patiently and
frankly, often showing themselves to those they befriended.

So people knew fairies in those days, my dear, and loved them, together
with all the ryls and knooks and pixies and nymphs and other beings
that belong to the hordes of immortals. And a fairy tale was a thing
to be wondered at and spoken of in awed whispers; for no one thought of
doubting its truth.

To-day the fairies are shy; for so many curious inventions of men have
come into use that the wonders of Fairyland are somewhat tame beside
them, and even the boys and girls can not be so easily interested or
surprised as in the old days. So the sweet and gentle little immortals
perform their tasks unseen and unknown, and live mostly in their own
beautiful realms, where they are almost unthought of by our busy,
bustling world.

Yet when we come to story-telling the marvels of our own age shrink
into insignificance beside the brave deeds and absorbing experiences of
the days when fairies were better known; and so we go back to "once on
a time" for the tales that we most love—and that children have ever
loved since mankind knew that fairies exist.

Once there was an enchanted island in the middle of the sea. It was
called the Isle of Yew. And in it were five important kingdoms ruled
by men, and many woodland dells and forest glades and pleasant meadows
and grim mountains inhabited by fairies.

From the fairies some of the men had learned wonderful secrets, and had
become magicians and sorcerers, with powers so great that the entire
island was reputed to be one of enchantments. Who these men were the
common people did not always know; for while some were kings and
rulers, others lived quietly hidden away in forests or mountains, and
seldom or never showed themselves. Indeed, there were not so many of
these magicians as people thought, only it was so hard to tell them
from common folk that every stranger was regarded with a certain amount
of curiosity and fear.

The island was round—like a mince pie. And it was divided into four
quarters—also like a pie—except that there was a big place in the
center where the fifth kingdom, called Spor, lay in the midst of the
mountains. Spor was ruled by King Terribus, whom no one but his own
subjects had ever seen—and not many of them. For no one was allowed
to enter the Kingdom of Spor, and its king never left his palace. But
the people of Spor had a bad habit of rushing down from their mountains
and stealing the goods of the inhabitants of the other four kingdoms,
and carrying them home with them, without offering any apologies
whatever for such horrid conduct. Sometimes those they robbed tried to
fight them; but they were a terrible people, consisting of giants with
huge clubs, and dwarfs who threw flaming darts, and the stern Gray Men
of Spor, who were most frightful of all. So, as a rule, every one fled
before them, and the people were thankful that the fierce warriors of
Spor seldom came to rob them oftener than once a year.

It was on this account that all who could afford the expense built
castles to live in, with stone walls so thick that even the giants of
Spor could not batter them down. And the children were not allowed to
stray far from home for fear some roving band of robbers might steal
them and make their parents pay large sums for their safe return.

Yet for all this the people of the Enchanted Isle of Yew were happy and
prosperous. No grass was greener, no forests more cool and delightful,
no skies more sunny, no sea more blue and rippling than theirs.

And the nations of the world envied them, but dared not attempt to
conquer an island abounding in enchantments.

That part of the Enchanted Isle which was kissed by the rising sun was
called Dawna; the kingdom that was tinted rose and purple by the
setting sun was known as Auriel, and the southland, where fruits and
flowers abounded, was the kingdom of Plenta. Up at the north lay Heg,
the home of the great barons who feared not even the men of Spor; and
in the Kingdom of Heg our story opens.

Upon a beautiful plain stood the castle of the great Baron
Merd—renowned alike in war and peace, and second in importance only to
the King of Heg. It was a castle of vast extent, built with thick
walls and protected by strong gates. In front of it sloped a pretty
stretch of land with the sea glistening far beyond; and back of it, but
a short distance away, was the edge of the Forest of Lurla.

One fair summer day the custodian of the castle gates opened a wicket
and let down a draw-bridge, when out trooped three pretty girls with
baskets dangling on their arms. One of the maids walked in front of
her companions, as became the only daughter of the mighty Baron Merd.
She was named Seseley, and had yellow hair and red cheeks and big, blue
eyes. Behind her, merry and laughing, yet with a distinct deference to
the high station of their young lady, walked Berna and Helda—dark
brunettes with mischievous eyes and slender, lithe limbs. Berna was
the daughter of the chief archer, and Helda the niece of the captain of
the guard, and they were appointed play-fellows and comrades of the
fair Seseley.

Up the hill to the forest's edge ran the three, and then without
hesitation plunged into the shade of the ancient trees. There was no
sunlight now, but the air was cool and fragrant of nuts and mosses, and
the children skipped along the paths joyously and without fear.

To be sure, the Forest of Lurla was well known as the home of fairies,
but Seseley and her comrades feared nothing from such gentle creatures
and only longed for an interview with the powerful immortals whom they
had been taught to love as the tender guardians of mankind. Nymphs
there were in Lurla, as well, and crooked knooks, it was said; yet for
many years past no person could boast the favor of meeting any one of
the fairy creatures face to face.

So, gathering a few nuts here and a sweet forest flower there, the
three maidens walked farther and farther into the forest until they
came upon a clearing—formed like a circle—with mosses and ferns for
its carpet and great overhanging branches for its roof.

"How pretty!" cried Seseley, gaily. "Let us eat our luncheon in this
lovely banquet-hall!"

So Berna and Helda spread a cloth and brought from their baskets some
golden platters and a store of food. Yet there was little ceremony
over the meal, you may be sure, and within a short space all the
children had satisfied their appetites and were laughing and chatting
as merrily as if they were at home in the great castle. Indeed, it is
certain they were happier in their forest glade than when facing grim
walls of stone, and the three were in such gay spirits that whatever
one chanced to say the others promptly joined in laughing over.

Soon, however, they were startled to hear a silvery peal of laughter
answering their own, and turning to see whence the sound proceeded,
they found seated near them a creature so beautiful that at once the
three pairs of eyes opened to their widest extent, and three hearts
beat much faster than before.

"Well, I must say you DO stare!" exclaimed the newcomer, who was
clothed in soft floating robes of rose and pearl color, and whose eyes
shone upon them like two stars.

"Forgive our impertinence," answered the little Lady Seseley, trying to
appear dignified and unmoved; "but you must acknowledge that you came
among us uninvited, and—and you are certainly rather odd in
appearance."

Again the silvery laughter rang through the glade.

"Uninvited!" echoed the creature, clapping her hands together
delightedly; "uninvited to my own forest home! Why, my dear girls, you
are the uninvited ones—indeed you are—to thus come romping into our
fairy bower."

The children did not open their eyes any wider on hearing this speech,
for they could not; but their faces expressed their amazement fully,
while Helda gasped the words:

"A fairy bower! We are in a fairy bower!"

"Most certainly," was the reply. "And as for being odd in appearance,
let me ask how you could reasonably expect a fairy to appear as mortal
maidens do?"

"A fairy!" exclaimed Seseley. "Are you, then, a real fairy?"

"I regret to say I am," returned the other, more soberly, as she patted
a moss-bank with a silver-tipped wand.

Then for a moment there was silence, while the three girls sat very
still and stared at their immortal companion with evident curiosity.
Finally Seseley asked:

"Why do you regret being a fairy? I have always thought them the
happiest creatures in the world."

"Perhaps we ought to be happy," answered the fairy, gravely, "for we
have wonderful powers and do much to assist you helpless mortals. And
I suppose some of us really are happy. But, for my part, I am so
utterly tired of a fairy life that I would do anything to change it."