He brushed the crumbs carefully from his doublet and shook hands.
'We always said, Dan and I,' Una stammered, 'that if it ever happened we'd know ex–actly what to do; but—but now it seems all different somehow.'
'She means meeting a fairy,' said Dan. 'I never believed in 'em—not after I was six, anyhow.'
'I did,' said Una. 'At least, I sort of half believed till we learned "Farewell Rewards". Do you know "Farewell Rewards and Fairies"?'
'Do you mean this?' said Puck. He threw his big head back and began at the second line:
'Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they; And though they sweep their hearths no less
('Join in, Una!')
Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late for cleanliness Finds sixpence in her shoe?'
The echoes flapped all along the flat meadow.
'Of course I know it,' he said.
'And then there's the verse about the rings,' said Dan. 'When I was little it always made me feel unhappy in my inside.'
'"Witness those rings and roundelays", do you mean?' boomed Puck, with a voice like a great church organ.
'Of theirs which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain, But since of late Elizabeth, And, later, James came in, Are never seen on any heath As when the time hath been.'
'It's some time since I heard that sung, but there's no good beating about the bush: it's true. The People of the Hills have all left. I saw them come into Old England and I saw them go. Giants, trolls, kelpies, brownies, goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound, and water spirits; heath–people, hill–watchers, treasure–guards, good people, little people, pishogues, leprechauns, night–riders, pixies, nixies, gnomes, and the rest—gone, all gone! I came into England with Oak, Ash and Thorn, and when Oak, Ash and Thorn are gone I shall go too.'
Dan looked round the meadow—at Una's Oak by the lower gate; at the line of ash trees that overhang Otter Pool where the mill–stream spills over when the Mill does not need it, and at the gnarled old white–thorn where Three Cows scratched their necks.
'It's all right,' he said; and added, 'I'm planting a lot of acorns this autumn too.'
'Then aren't you most awfully old?' said Una.
'Not old—fairly long–lived, as folk say hereabouts. Let me see—my friends used to set my dish of cream for me o' nights when Stonehenge was new. Yes, before the Flint Men made the Dewpond under Chanctonbury Ring.'
Una clasped her hands, cried 'Oh!' and nodded her head.
'She's thought a plan,' Dan explained. 'She always does like that when she thinks a plan.'
'I was thinking—suppose we saved some of our porridge and put it in the attic for you? They'd notice if we left it in the nursery.'
'Schoolroom,' said Dan quickly, and Una flushed, because they had made a solemn treaty that summer not to call the schoolroom the nursery any more.
'Bless your heart o' gold!' said Puck. 'You'll make a fine considering wench some market–day. I really don't want you to put out a bowl for me; but if ever I need a bite, be sure I'll tell you.'
He stretched himself at length on the dry grass, and the children stretched out beside him, their bare legs waving happily in the air. They felt they could not be afraid of him any more than of their particular friend old Hobden the hedger. He did not bother them with grown–up questions, or laugh at the donkey's head, but lay and smiled to himself in the most sensible way.
'Have you a knife on you?' he said at last.
Dan handed over his big one–bladed outdoor knife, and Puck began to carve out a piece of turf from the centre of the Ring.
'What's that for—Magic?' said Una, as he pressed up the square of chocolate loam that cut like so much cheese.
'One of my little magics,' he answered, and cut another. 'You see, I can't let you into the Hills because the People of the Hills have gone; but if you care to take seizin from me, I may be able to show you something out of the common here on Human Earth. You certainly deserve it.'
'What's taking seizin?' said Dan, cautiously.
'It's an old custom the people had when they bought and sold land. They used to cut out a clod and hand it over to the buyer, and you weren't lawfully seized of your land—it didn't really belong to you—till the other fellow had actually given you a piece of it—like this.' He held out the turves.
'But it's our own meadow,' said Dan, drawing back. 'Are you going to magic it away?'
Puck laughed. 'I know it's your meadow, but there's a great deal more in it than you or your father ever guessed. Try!'
He turned his eyes on Una.
'I'll do it,' she said. Dan followed her example at once.
'Now are you two lawfully seized and possessed of all Old England,' began Puck, in a sing–song voice. 'By right of Oak, Ash, and Thorn are you free to come and go and look and know where I shall show or best you please. You shall see What you shall see and you shall hear What you shall hear, though It shall have happened three thousand year; and you shall know neither Doubt nor Fear. Fast! Hold fast all I give you.'
The children shut their eyes, but nothing happened.
'Well?' said Una, disappointedly opening them. 'I thought there would be dragons.'
'"Though It shall have happened three thousand year,"' said Puck, and counted on his fingers. 'No; I'm afraid there were no dragons three thousand years ago.'
'But there hasn't happened anything at all,' said Dan.
'Wait awhile,' said Puck. 'You don't grow an oak in a year—and Old England's older than twenty oaks. Let's sit down again and think. I can do that for a century at a time.'
'Ah, but you're a fairy,' said Dan.
'Have you ever heard me say that word yet?' said Puck quickly.
'No. You talk about "the People of the Hills", but you never say "fairies",' said Una. 'I was wondering at that. Don't you like it?'
'How would you like to be called "mortal" or "human being" all the time?' said Puck; 'or "son of Adam" or "daughter of Eve"?'
'I shouldn't like it at all,' said Dan. 'That's how the Djinns and Afrits talk in the Arabian Nights.'
'And that's how I feel about saying—that word that I don't say. Besides, what you call them are made–up things the People of the Hills have never heard of—little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze petticoats, and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a schoolteacher's cane for punishing bad boys and rewarding good ones. I know 'em!'
'We don't mean that sort,' said Dan. 'We hate 'em too.'
'Exactly,' said Puck. 'Can you wonder that the People of the Hills don't care to be confused with that painty–winged, wand–waving, sugar–and–shake–your–head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed! I've seen Sir Huon and a troop of his people setting off from Tintagel Castle for Hy–Brasil in the teeth of a sou'–westerly gale, with the spray flying all over the Castle, and the Horses of the Hills wild with fright. Out they'd go in a lull, screaming like gulls, and back they'd be driven five good miles inland before they could come head to wind again. Butterfly–wings! It was Magic—Magic as black as Merlin could make it, and the whole sea was green fire and white foam with singing mermaids in it. And the Horses of the Hills picked their way from one wave to another by the lightning flashes! That was how it was in the old days!'
'Splendid,' said Dan, but Una shuddered.
'I'm glad they're gone, then; but what made the People of the Hills go away?' Una asked.
'Different things. I'll tell you one of them some day—the thing that made the biggest flit of any,' said Puck. 'But they didn't all flit at once. They dropped off, one by one, through the centuries. Most of them were foreigners who couldn't stand our climate. They flitted early.'