Algernon Blackwood by A Prisoner in Fairyland Page B

this way. They were accustomed to it,
expected it even.
    'I always love being out at night,' said Monkey, her eyes very bright;
'it sort of excites and makes me soft and happy.'
    'Excuse me, Daddy, but have you been inside one? What's it like? The
Cave, I mean?' Jinny stuck to the point. She had not yet travelled
beyond it.
    'It all collects in there and rises to the top like cream,' he went
on, 'and has a little tiny perfume like wild violets, and by walking
through it you get clothed and covered with it, and come out again all
soft-shiny—'
    'What's soft-shiny, please?'
    'Something half-primrose and half-moon. You're like a star—'
    'But how—like a star?'
    'Why,' he explained gently, yet a little disappointed that his
adventure was not instantly accepted, 'you shine, and your eyes
twinkle, and everybody likes you and thinks you beautiful—'
    'Even if you're not?' inquired Jinny.
    'But you
are
—'
    'Couldn't we go there now? Mother's fast asleep!' suggested Jimbo in a
mysterious whisper. He felt a curious excitement. This, he felt, was
more real than usual. He glanced at Monkey's eyes a moment.
    'Another time,' said Daddy, already half believing in the truth of his
adventure, yet not quite sure of himself. 'It collects, and collects,
and collects. Sometimes, here and there, a little escapes and creeps
out into yellow flowers like dandelions and buttercups. A little, too,
slips below the ground and fills up empty cracks between the rocks.
Then it hardens, gets dirty, and men dig it out again and call it
gold. And some slips out by the roof—though very, very little—and
you see it flashing back to find the star it belongs to, and people
with telescopes call it a shooting star, and—' It came pouring
through him again.
    'But when you're in it—in the Cavern,' asked Monkey impatiently;
'what happens then?'
    'Well,' he answered with conviction, 'it sticks to you. It sticks to
the eyes most, but a little also to the hair and voice, and nobody
loves you unless you've got a bit of it somewhere on you. A girl,
before any one falls in love with her, has always been there, and
people who write stories and music and things—all have got some on
their fingers or else nobody cares for what they write—'
    'Oh, Daddy, then why don't you go there and get sticky all over with
it?' Jinny burst out with sudden eagerness, ever thinking of others
before herself. 'I'll go and get some for you—lots and lots.'
    'I
have
been there,' he answered slowly, 'once long, long ago. But
it didn't stick very well with me. It wipes off so quickly in the day-
time. The sunlight kills it.'
    'But you got
some
!' the child insisted. 'And you've got it still, I
mean?'
    'A little, perhaps, a very little.'
    All felt the sadness in his voice without understanding it. There was
a moment's pause. Then the three of them spoke in a single breath—
    'Please show it to us—
now
,' they cried.
    'I'll try,' he said, after a slight hesitation, 'but—er—it's only a
rhyme, you see'; and then began to murmur very low for fear of waking
Mother: he almost sang it to them. The flock of tiny voices whispered
it to his blood. He merely uttered what he heard:—
    Starlight
Runs along my mind
And rolls into a ball of golden silk—
A little skein
Of tangled glory;
And when I want to get it out again
To weave the pattern of a verse or story,
It must unwind.
    It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled,
And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled,
To make my verse or story,
The interfering sun has risen
And burst with passion through my silky prison
To melt it down in dew,
Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton.
Don't you?
I
call it rotten!
    A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke for
several minutes. There was a faint laughter, quickly over, but
containing sighs. Only Jinny stared straight into her father's face,
expecting more, though prepared at any stage to explode with unfeigned
admiration.
    'But that "don't you" comes in the