Part 2

“Yes, children, to some pure and simple souls the gift is given through life to interpret them to man; and sometimes to the aged and the weak it is granted to find strength anew, in flowery woods and birds’ and insects’ song;—to you, ye little ones, Nature shall to-night speak out in clearest voices, to echo in your hearts perchance in years to come.”

“I hope he isn’t going to preach,” whispered Hal to his sister, “I shan’t like him half so much if he does.” Then he added aloud, “I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Santa Claus, but never mind, I don’t understand the sermons our old clergyman preaches; mother says it is good to try and listen, but I think they forget about the little children in church!”

“Perhaps the preacher does not know we are there, Hal, we are so little, you know,” added Cis in an apologetic tone, “and there is a long way between us and the pulpit.”

“Perhaps so,” said Hal absently, for he was wondering if he could put his Star of Love over the pulpit on Christmas Day; it would make a bright light, and perhaps the preacher would remember them then,—and he added aloud, “But if he did remember us, Cis, I expect he’d be cross if we didn’t sit _quite_ still, as I heard him say one day we ought.”

“I suppose it is such a long time since he was a little child, that he forgets how hard it is,” said little Cis.

But by this time they had got out of the thickest part of the bush, and were walking along a little winding path near a precipice. On the upper side was a bank from which dainty ferns hung their graceful fronds, and beneath them, on the moss, the tiny lamps of myriad glow-worms shone like specks of fire. As the children stopped to gaze, they heard the glow-worms singing:—

“Children of the earth are we, Small and brown and ill to see; But we can make our lamps at night In dreary places show their light. Travellers oft might miss the way, Warned we not their footsteps back, When upon the narrow track Near the precipice they stray. Children of the earth are we, Small and brown and ill to see; Still our tiny lamps we trim; Children, let not yours grow dim!”

“We have got no lamps, you stupid little glow-worms,” said Hal, “unless you call this Star of Love that we carry a lamp. But couldn’t you sing something more lively to us?” he added. Then the glow-worms brightened up and sang to a merry tune:—

“Oh! stay, ye children, stay, And listen to our song, For childhood’s hour is short, And manhood’s day is long. Come, see our fairy haunts, And we will light the way; Come, join the merry dance, And dance till break of day.”

“Please may we go to the dance, Mr. Santa Claus?” begged Hal; their guide nodded assent, and they watched the glow-worms form into a long line, two and two, and creep between two high moss-grown rocks.

“It’s all very well to say ‘come,’” remarked Hal, “but how are we to get through that place, I should like to know?”

“Hold Love’s wand high overhead,” answered Santa Claus, “and much that is difficult will be made easy.”

“Oh, dear! he has begun preaching again,” cried Hal, but he held the star over his own and his sister’s head, and, pushing some overhanging brambles aside, they found that they could easily go where the glow-worms led.

On, on went the long procession of shining lights, and the little voices were heard, now faint, now clear:—

“Come, see the fairy haunts. And we will light the way; Come, join the merry dance, And dance till break of day.”

And soon what a sight met the eyes of the children! In an open space surrounded by high trees, on a bright ring of green grass, a number of little fairies were dancing, their tiny twinkling feet scarcely seeming to touch the lightly bending blades. And what merry music! a band of locusts with their shining wings beat tunes upon the brown tree-trunks; big night-moths hummed their low songs, and drowsy beetles droned fitfully, while from the trees o’erhead the bell-birds rang their clear high notes. It was a gala night, and birds and insects had come to join in the dance.

On a branch near by sat a small brown owl, round-eyed and solemn, beating with a raupo stem the time, which no one tried to keep. “Too fast, stop them!” cried he, in his harsh, cold voice; but no one took any notice except the Tui in a bush, who repeated his words;—and the music played, and the dancers danced as madly as before.

Then, out from the dark wood there came a motley throng; bright golden-eyed green lizards, their long tails waving like shining river-weeds; sleek-coated rats, and solemn Maori hens; fat caterpillars waddling through the grass, and snorting kiwis[3] following close behind; while sombre-coloured crows and starlings tripped on in pairs.

Now, by the laws of fairy-land, no bird could feed upon insects so long as the night revels were kept up; nevertheless the caterpillars did not feel quite comfortable, for many a sly poke they got to “hurry up” from the kiwis’ long bills, with which these birds gave disappointed snaps, as they saw such tempting morsels near by.

Then came whole families of green parrakeets, proudly holding up their red-crested heads, and chattering all the scandal of the forest; black-feathered Tuis[4] with their white neckties cleanly washed; tiny Fantails,[5] their fans spread out, for the night was warm: and Robins too, were there, some in dark grey garb, and some in black with yellow and white breast-fronts newly smoothed;—and as the fresh comers appeared, the music struck up with renewed vigour, and the glow-worms, nodding, made their lamps burn brighter still.

All were soon joining in the dance,—fairies, birds and insects, and Hal and Cis, seeing Santa Claus sit down under a tree-fern, joined too.

“We’re sorry we are so big,” said Hal, “but Cis and I will try and not knock any of you over. Would you mind tucking your tail up under your arm?” he said to a young lady lizard near whom he was dancing in a waltz. “Allow me to help you;” and help he did, for the tail came off in his hand! “I beg your pardon,” said Hall.

“Don’t mention it, tails always grow quickly, you know,” replied the lizard with a laugh, as she skipped gaily on.

“Please, Mr. Kiwi, would you oblige me by dancing on two legs instead of three,” asked little Cis, for the Kiwi was her partner, and was using his bill as a support, and often pricked her toes.

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” said he in a huff, “it’s my bill! but perhaps you don’t know what a bill is!”

“I’ve only heard mother say that no one likes long bills,” said little Cis.

At this the Kiwi snorted contemptuously, and left her, and the brown owl,[6] seeing something was wrong, thought it must be the music, and shouted out, “Too fast! stop them!” but no one took any heed, for he was only an old croaker, and could not be expected to keep pace with the young people. So he dropped his raupo-stem, and sulked on the bough. Soon afterwards the band stopped, and some strange flute-like notes were heard in the distance.

The Tui called out excitedly, “Make haste! take your places if you want to see the Gavotte, here comes the great dancer of the evening!” and all the birds and fairies hurried to get good places on the branches near by, while caterpillars and lizards stood up on their tails. Then out from the thick underwood came two crows,[7] proudly strutting side by side; the male bird took his place upon a straight leafless branch, well in sight of all the expectant throng, while the female bird sat down on a fallen mossy bough, where she could see her mate.

Then he began the Gavotte, and what a lively performance it was! up and down, up and down the branch, springing, pirouetting, tail and wings out-spread, with many a fanciful step and flourish, danced the crow right merrily to his own sweet gurgling music. Truly he was a mate worthy of the little wife he had won by his dancing at pairing time; she was sitting near, watching, and when the dance was ended he looked down at her proudly, while the on-lookers applauded.

“Capital! capital!” shouted little Cis and Hal, clapping, and the Tui overhead echoed their words.

“How nice to have a husband who can dance and sing so well!” said one of the parrakeets.

“Yes,” said the lady crow, “it is nice, of course, but there are other things to be considered in choosing a husband; still he is a good one on the whole, though sometimes I should like to join in the whistling and dancing, too. Let us have a dance all together now!” she added, and the owl, having got over his fit of the sulks, asked for his raupo stem to be handed to him again, and started the music afresh.

The crow, offended by his wife’s remarks, chose another partner for a while, but Cis, watching, saw that he soon went back to her, and a little later on the pair slipped away into the wood together, so she supposed they had made up their tiff.

Then the dancers took a rest, for they were all rather tired.

“Oh, look!” said the grey robin, who was still sitting on the bush near Cis, “there are the Tuataras; what a wonder it is for them to come and see us. How do you do?” called out the bird, at the same time nodding his head condescendingly to two large stone-coloured lizards with a row of white spines down their backs, who glided into the open space, and, lying down on some stones, watched the scene with solemn bright eyes.

“They did not answer you!” said Cis, “do they never speak?”

“Not often to us,” replied the bird, “they are too proud of their old family to talk to ordinary dwellers in the forest; those two must have come a long way to visit us to-night, for, some years ago, the Tuataras said they did not like the fast ways of the inhabitants of this part of the country, and they all retired to an island off the coast, where their only companions are the mutton-birds who live in holes in the ground;—and, I think, it is so mean of the lizards, they share the mutton-birds’ holes, and then often feed upon their young ones.”

“Do not the Tuataras[8] get any food themselves?” asked Cis.

“Yes, at night,” replied the robin, “they only go out then; _I_ think there must be something wrong when people always do things in the dark, do not you?”

“I do not know,” said Cis, “perhaps they have reasons we do not understand.”

“My mother was told by a learned man that the Tuataras have _three_ eyes,” continued the bird.

“If so, they can see more than other people, and that is why they look so wise,” said little Cis.

“Perhaps so,” replied the bird, “but none of us have ever seen the third eye, and it is funny where it can be.”

“If you looked carefully you would find it on the top of our heads,” said the mellow voice of a Tuatara who had evidently been listening; “our ancestors were great star-gazers, but we have given up that sort of nonsense, we find it quite enough to attend to things on the earth, so we all agreed to shut one eye; it is best to do so sometimes,” added the lizard musingly.

“Indeed!” said the robin, and he put his head on one side and looked very unbelieving.

Just then two cockroaches, more curious than the rest, ran up the stones near where the lizards sat, who, suddenly turning their heads, seized and swallowed them.

How indignant all the birds and insects were at this transgression of the laws of fairy-land, and loud cries arose from all sides of “Shame! shame!”

“Peck out their eyes!” cried the Kiwi, who had, however, been thinking he should like a meal himself.

“Off with their tails!” croaked a bright green frog.

“Off with their tails!” repeated the Tui in a shrill voice.

But the Tuataras, hearing the noise, glided down from the stones into the fern; Hal and the birds went after them, but the lizards were soon lost to sight in a hole.

“We shall have to give it up,” said Hal, “we could not get them out of that hole except by digging; let us go back to the others:” so they returned, and Hal, sitting down by Santa Claus, said, “This is all great fun,—I wonder when they will begin dancing again, I never enjoyed a dance so much before.”

A stout caterpillar,[9] who sat near, and was troubled with asthma, overhearing this, put in his word. “It is only because you are young that it all seems so good; wait till you are old and stout like me, and you won’t be so mad at dancing!”

“But you will be a lovely butterfly by-and-by,” added little Cis.

“Not I!” said the caterpillar, “I would not be anything so flighty.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“I mean to retire to some quiet spot on the earth,” said the caterpillar, “and be of some use in the world. I have heard that some of my brothers who have buried themselves grew after a while into plants which are much sought for and valued, and I intend to try it too, I admire variety, for what is the good of being one of the common herd, I should like to know?” and the caterpillar stopped, panting, for it was a long speech for him with his short breath.

“I should do what other caterpillars do, if I were you,” said little Cis thoughtfully, “for I’ve heard that the hearts of those caterpillars you speak of, get harder and harder, till, when the plant grows from them, they turn into wood, too, and die.”

“May be! may be! but I don’t care what people say,” replied he in impatient husky tones, as he turned away and began to dig in the earth under a big rata-tree as quickly as he could.

“Too fast, stop him!” shouted the brown owl.

“Hold your tongue!” cried the caterpillar, “what do you know about it? Who asked you to preach?”

“Oh! don’t quarrel!” said the gentle voice of little Cis; “let me give you a little more light, Mr. Caterpillar, if you _will_ bury yourself,” and she ran and picked up Hal’s wand, and threw the light of Love’s Star on the old grubber. The owl above only blinked, and said in surly tones that he knew he was right, and he wished people wouldn’t try to throw light on his eyes.

Little Cis, being left by her partner, sat down on a mossy bank, and was watching the rest, when she heard some twittering notes near, and looking down saw two little birds close to her feet, one all grey, one grey with a yellow breast, their bright eyes twinkling, their little tails wagging.

“We thought you looked lonely,” said the grey bird, “so we have come to talk to you.”

“What are your names, little birds?” said Cis.

“We are robins,”[10] said they.

“Robins, are you?” replied little Cis, “why, mother used to tell me that robins had red breasts.”

“Oh! so I’ve heard it said they have on the other side of the world,” replied the grey bird, who seemed to be the greater talker of the two, “but we don’t care for so much red, as everything else here is so bright, our family only go in for quiet colours; it’s more ladylike. What do you think of our ball?” he added, and then continued, “I don’t care much for dancing myself; I like afternoon-teas better. I am very fond of company, and one hears all the news of the country-side at a tea-party; it is much more sociable too.”

“Perhaps so,” said little Cis in a doubtful voice, for she had only been to dolls’ tea-parties, and no one talked there.

“Yes,” went on the grey robin, “there are three charming parrakeets, who live in a wood near by, and they sometimes give afternoon teas, and, really, it is as good as reading a newspaper to hear all the tales told of the neighbours.”

“Kind tales?” asked Cis.

“Well, I don’t exactly know,” said the grey robin, “but that doesn’t matter; the parrakeets[11] say the great thing is to have something to talk about.”

“Don’t say that,” put in the yellow-breasted robin, “the old owl tells us never to repeat an unkind thing; it is only the busy-bodies of the Tui family who do that, and they often whistle the tales they hear so badly, that you’d scarcely know them to be the same.”

“Perhaps they can’t help it, you know,” remarked little Cis; “it is not every one who has a good ear; and, besides, Tuis talk so much, that they can’t have much time to think about what they say. I don’t expect they mean to alter things. Mother told me never to tell any but good tales of Hal, but it is difficult sometimes when he teases me,” and little Cis sighed.

“I think this is a very nice ball with you to talk to,” said the grey robin; “do you mind if we stay near you?”

“Oh, no, I shall like it,” replied Cis; so the robins perched on a bush close by, and with their heads on one side eyed the dancers (who had started afresh), and they now and again added their sweet low notes to the music.

“We don’t sing much,” said they, “but we like to do our best to make things lively.”

Just then, such a scuffling was heard in the long grass, that Cis jumped up to see what was the matter, and there were two Maori hens[12] fighting over some bright buttons, tied together with string, which Hal had thrown down. They were jumping round and round each other in the maddest excitement, heads and short tails bobbing, and wings flapping. The brown owl cried, “Too fast, stop them!” but the music and the noise drowned his voice. At last the fatter of the two hens stopped a minute to get breath, and the other, seizing its opportunity, gave an extra tug, and carried off the buttons under the bushes. The fat hen ran after as fast as possible, calling out, “Stop thief! stop thief!” then they both disappeared in the bushes.

Little Cis thought she heard a parrot on a tree overhead call out something about “The pot calling the kettle black,” but as she did not see any signs of cooking near, she thought she must be mistaken.

Meanwhile, Hal had been gossiping with the birds and insects, and hearing many tales of fun and frolic in the greenwood, and many too of hair-breadth escapes from hard-hearted hunters and cruel boys.

“Do you know I am uncommonly hungry,” said Hal, coming up to where Santa Claus was watching. Hal had a little fairy with lovely gauze wings perched on each of his shoulders, and he added, “And these little friends of mine are thirsty too, and all the flowers are shut up, so they can’t get any dew; it really is too bad for them to close so early.”

At a nod from Santa Claus the birds flew off, and quickly returned with numberless fruits and berries; huge mushroom-tables sprang up rapidly, and soon were bending with the weight of the good things. Blue-bells held out their cups of sparkling dew to all, and the Tui and the Bell-bird revelled in honey, pure and golden, which the small wild-bees brought.

The fairies lightly perched on toadstools and the blades of grass, and were gallantly waited upon by long-legged spiders, whilst the birds vied with each other in paying attentions to little Cis.

Long and merry was the feast, only the Kiwi sat grumpily by, and, eyeing some curled-up earthworms, sniffed and said that there was nothing for him to eat. But alas! old Time stays not his flight, even in the brightest hours, and Santa Claus, pointing to the moon sinking low in the sky, the happy revel ceased, and good-byes were said. The fairies winged their flight to hide in the flowers’ sweet hearts; the insects sought their secret haunts in rugged bark and crannied soil; the birds flew off to their leafy homes, except the Kiwi, and he could not, having no wings, poor fellow! so he scuttled quickly about, hunting around for food, but alas! the earthworms and grubs had already hidden in the mossy soil, or beneath the dead leaves.

“Gone! gone!” snorted the disappointed bird, hungry and cross, “and hard work I shall have to dig them out.”

“Too fast, stop them!” excitedly shrieked the brown owl, who was watching some caterpillars waddling off as quickly as they could.

“What is the good of saying that?” asked the Tui, “I shan’t imitate you anymore. It is not likely the caterpillars, if they heard you, would stop to be eaten to please you. I’m off to the bush, near the stream,” continued the Tui, “where the white heron[13] is bringing up her aristocratic family in her nest in the tree-fern, I shall get some conversation worth listening to with her, for she’s a lady of education, and does not mix with every one!” and the Tui flew off.

“I say, old fellow,” called out Hal to the owl, “that was rather hard on you. I’d change my tune if I were you, I think.”

The owl put his brown head on one side, looked very wise for a moment, then shouted out at the top of his shrill voice, “More pork! more pork!”

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you,” laughed Hal, “but if you’ll go farther into the bush you might tackle a few wild pigs if you like.”

“I expect he means ‘more mice,’” said little Cis; “perhaps he’s getting old, poor thing!”

But the owl shouted out “More pork! more pork!” and does so to this day.

“Come, children,” said Santa Claus, “I have more wonderful things to show you before the sun rises;” and he led them out of the forest and up a hill, from the brow of which they looked on a plain broken by deep gullies and bounded afar by dark mountain ranges. Scattered trees loomed vast and unreal in the misty light, and the children walked on silently, almost wishing they were at home again, but yet curious to know what else Santa Claus had to show them. Suddenly a miserable little cur ran out of the bushes, barking, and amidst the manuka and cabbage-trees they saw a raupo whare. Grotesque heads carved upon the gable and on the corner posts of the low roof grinned hideously at Hal and Cis, and they were very startled when some dark figures, wrapped in loose mats, ran out hastily, looking big and weird in the dim and uncertain light.

“They are not giants, are they?” whispered little Cis in a timid tone.

“No, no,” replied Hal, “they are only Maories; and see, they are more frightened of us than you are of them.”

The Maories, indeed, on seeing Santa Claus, his starry crown shining like a halo round his head, and Hal, whose face was lighted up by the Star of Love which he carried, were terrified, and uttering loud cries of “Aue! Aue!” they rushed back into their hut.

“Why do they run away from us?” asked Cis.

“They, no doubt, thought we were spirits,” answered Santa Claus; “Maories are very much afraid of their dead grandfathers and grandmothers,” added he, laughing.

“I wonder why that is,” said Hal, “I should have thought they would be glad to see the people again who are kind and good, as grandfathers and grandmothers always are.”

By this time they had gone some little distance past the whare, and at the bottom of the hill they came to a narrow valley,[14] the sides of which were clad with a luxuriant growth of feathery manuka, so white with its numberless small blossoms, that in the faint light that comes before the summer dawn, the valley looked as though a snowstorm had passed over it. From hidden places amongst the shrubs, thick curling steam arose, now hiding the trees and bushes, and even veiling the faint stars above for a few seconds, then melting into thin air, leaving a warm dripping moisture on everything around. Mysterious hissing noises filled the air, and ever and anon the earth shook as though with fear.

The wondering, half-frightened children, tightly clasping each other’s hands, followed Santa Claus along the steep, zig-zag path that led down to the bottom of the valley; then, feeling the ground warm beneath her feet, little Cis said, “I am so frightened, Mr. Santa Claus, please may we go back?”

“Yes, I think we _ought_ to go back,” added Hal, “for it must be getting near breakfast-time now.”