A Fairy Story That Came True

A Fairy Story That Came True
By Mary Dickerson Donahey
I have been writing fairy tales for many
years, but never did I expect to have one
come true!
I have described in my books all sorts of
odd, romantic, beautiful and interesting
places of abode, but never did I think I’d
live in one odder, more romantic, more
beautiful and interesting than any I’d
raked and scraped my imagination to tell
about! Recklessly I have presented my
heroines and heroes with generous fairy
friends, never dreaming that Fate held in
store for me a company of fairy
godfathers and godmothers who were to
shower me with gifts and pleasures, good
times and good will absolutely unheard
of outside of a fairy story!
The worst of it is that it was through
none of my own fairy folk this all came to
me. No—the thing started when I married
an artist, more than twenty years ago! I
said to him, “You can write,” expecting
him to become another Balzac or Mark
Twain or some little thing like that! And
“Bordered with woods of hemlock and spruce and pines, white
birch and maple.”
instead he invaded my own field of
children’s literature, beat me at my own
game, and evolved the Teenie Weenies, a
very famous race of very little people who
have brought us a great many nice
things, tiny as they are!
The Teenie Weenies
For years the Teenie Weenies and their
doings were chronicled in the Sunday
edition of the Chicago Tribune and other
papers all over the country, as well as in
books, and then, emboldened by their
journalistic success, they stepped into
the field of wholesale business, and
began helping Reid, Murdoch & Co. of
Chicago to sell Teenie Weenie Peanut
Butter, Peas and Sardines and all sorts
of other good things, but largely and
importantly, Teenie Weenie Pickles, small
sweet pickled cucumbers, put up in the
stoutest, most attractive little barrels
that ever were built, as well as in glass
jars.
And just as soon as the pickles began to
pop into the barrels, and the barrels to
hop out of the stores, the magic began to
work!
But I hadn’t the slightest idea it was
working until early in the evening of
Saturday, June 12, 1926—a day and
date I never shall forget— when the
results of the whole thing burst upon me
all at once and reduced me to such a
state of delighted astonishment that for a
while I hardly knew what was happening,
and not at all what I was doing or saying
or even thinking!
We Started at Dawn
Extremely early in the morning of the day
before my husband and I and our dog
Buddie—who looks like a small and very
pretty yellow fox and is nothing but a
little yellow cur—had climbed into a car
laden with our own baggage and a motor
for a row boat kindly lent for the
occasion, and motored from Chicago out
to the home of Mr. and Mrs. S. P. Stevens
in Evanston, where we were to join them
on a vacation trip. I knew all about that!
For over a year Mr. Stevens had been
telling us of a wonderful and beautiful
and uninhabited country in the North
“It’s thick-it’s solid-why, my great goodness gracious-it’s a Teenie Weenie House!”
peninsula of Michigan, right on the
shores of Lake Superior, where there
were hills and fields, marvelous sand
dunes and great forests and a quaint,
pretty little town, Grand Marais, all to be
enjoyed together!
It sounded good to me. It sounded even
better to my husband, who hates crowds
and big hotels and adores quiet,
remoteness and—fishing. I was
interested, curious and happy. If I had
known half—but that is the rest of my
story and I mustn’t get ahead of myself.
A Foggy Morning
Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, with their
chauffeur Arthur and his wife Emily,
were ready, and off we went, into the
heart of a fog, and we motored for two,
long, happy days, and those five people,
who must have all been bursting with the
things they knew and I didn’t, were as
matter-of-fact as could be, so that I
arrived at the end of my journey with not
a suspicion of any secret brewing, or of
any surprise to come.
I was interested enough in the country.
The last twenty-six miles were all away
from the railroad—into the wilderness, a
wilderness that must have been
supremely beautiful years ago before the
greedy lumber companies stripped the
country and left great acres of stumps.
Going through there I became greatly
excited over the stupid and wasteful way
in which such work is done in this toolavish country of ours. And then we
began going through woods which had
been spared somehow, and then we
swept over a fog-enveloped hill—it was
odd that so pleasant and sunny a trip
should have both begun and ended in
fog— and there before us was a great
expanse that I was told was Lake
Superior, and we drew deep lungsful of
the air, not better than, but different
from the smell of the woods, and drew up
before the Nettleton House, from which
came quite another sort of smell, but a
most welcome o to hungry motorists!
But This Wasn’t the End of Our
Journey
I must admit I thought it was queer that
we weren’t shown directly to our rooms!
Mrs. Stevens and I took off our hats and
freshened up in a room where I was
definitely told not to unpack, and yet, I
heard Mr. Stevens tell the proprietor to
assign Arthur and Emmy a room. But—
I’m not terribly curious about what
concerns other people; I was certain Mr.
Stevens would see
to our comfort, and
was in no mood to
be critical anyhow.
about a mile wide—a lake without one
habitation on it, bordered with woods of
hemlock and spruce, pines, white birch
and maple, where they told me deer were
often seen and bears had been known to
come. “Would I walk a bit along the
shore?” Certainly I would. I wanted to get
in under those
trees, and the trail
led so close to the
water that it
became a tiny path
only—for to the
North, between us
and the big lake,
loomed great barren
dunes—and the
autos could go no
farther. Or we
“Herons and cranes fly near and watch us; loons call at nightthought they
spruce silhouetted on dark green against the vivid, rippling blue.”
Again after supper I
thought it was odd
when he proposed a
drive! A walk—yes,
of course. But we’d
been driving for two
days! However, I’d
had no “trick at the
wheel.” If Mr.
Donahey and Arthur were ready to go on
doing it, I was, too. And I was eager to
see lovely Grand Sable Lake of which I’d
heard so much.
So off we went, through lovely rolling
country, to the shores of a beautiful lake
they told me was four miles long and
couldn’t! We were to learn more about
the possibility of autos passing that way
a little later.
It Commenced to Grow Dark
Well, we walked. Dusk was beginning to
fall. It was so peaceful and so beautiful!
Presently I said, “Why somebody has a
shack up here!” Then I said, “What a
lovely location!” And then—well I didn’t
say anything for a few minutes because
my mind was racing too fast for me to get
it all into words. As 1 can remember, my
thoughts ran something like this-“No, it
isn’t a shack—what a queer shape—why,
Mr. Stevens must have had a big Teenie
Weenie sign board put up out here for a
welcome and a surprise— how nice, but
how terribly expensive—no, it isn’t a sign
either! It’s thick— it’s solid—why, my
great goodness gracious, IT’S A TEENIE
‘WEENIE BARREL HOUSE!” And then I
erupted into words and the woods
erupted into children!
Out Came the Teenie Weenies
Children dressed as Teenie Weenies!
Policemen in uniforms as trim as could
be, paraded about the place, swinging
professional clubs with a regular urban
swagger. And out stepped the Teenie
Weenie General, red coat, plumed hat
and all; made me the grandest and
deepest bow, and presented me with a
huge golden key—the key to the estate—
and the smaller keys—the keys to The
Barrel House!
He had a wonderful address of welcome,
all done in verse, and he recited it well.
Considering that he’d only had it that
morning, I marveled afterward when I
remembered how very seldom he had
referred to his typewritten copy. That
small boy is born to be a public speaker,
for when he inadvertently dropped his
hat, it never fazed him—and one of the
policemen showed great presence of
mind, for he came over, picked it up and
went on patrolling his beat as if retrieving
plumed hats was a regular part of his
job.
Somehow or other I made a speech of
thanks. What? Gracious, I didn’t know
what I was saying then—certainly I
couldn’t tell now! But I do remember
getting something out. Then Mr.
Belknap, the principal of the Grand
Marais School, who had trained the
youngsters, (Kenneth LeFebre, Philip
Newberg, John Strom, Philip Strom,
Louis Des Jardin, Ora Endress, William
Abrahamson, Douglas Mulligan, Vernon
“The Big Barrel is sixteen feet high. The little one is eight feet high.”
Bleckner, Charles LeFebre, William
LaCombe, Axel Niemi, Arthur LeFebre,
Floyd Hill and others) and Mr. Roy Hill,
who had been the local fairy godfather of
the house, took the children and
vanished, and the rest of us swarmed
over the little place. There was so much
to see. There was so much to hear. I was
so astounded I couldn’t take it all in. I
didn’t see then—and I do not see now—
WHY this wonderful and delightful thing
should have happened to me, and I
couldn’t comprehend it all at once. Then,
there were new things to find and
appreciate every minute, for the little
place was complete. No one ever stepped
into a better equipped home. It made me
feel as if I were a bride again. And funny!
And odd! A play house if ever there was
one!
How It All Started
Which brings us to the history of the
place and its description. First, then, one
of the colored advertisements which Mr.
Donahey made for the Teenie Weenie
Pickles, showed a Teenie Weenie
wedding, with the bridal couple going to
housekeeping in a house made out of one
of the pretty little oaken barrels in which
the Monarch Teenie Weenie Sweet Pickles
are sold.
Well, that gave Mr. Stevens his idea. He
spoke of it to Mr. Harold S. Cunliff, of the
Pioneer Cooperage Company of Chicago,
who makes the little barrels, and he and
Mrs. Cunliff “took” to the notion. At once
they began to plan a thing unheard of
and unseen—a house made out of
barrels!
The plans were drawn, and my husband
was let in on the secret and approved
them. Mrs. Cunliff has studied interior
decorating and is an enthusiastic lover of
the woods, so she was able to work out
both the artistic and the practical details
of the inside. All winter they labored. And
it was labor! The big barrel was to be big
enough for two rooms: one upstairs and
one down, and never had a barrel as big
as that been dreamed of!
New problems of construction were
presented at every step—and they came
even thicker and faster when the barrels
were set up.
How the Barrel Traveled to Grand Sable
Lake
Well, at last the two were made to careful
measurements, in the Pioneer Cooperage
Company’s plant in Chicago, and sent,
knocked down, by rail to Seney; —carried
by truck over the none-too-good road into
Grand Marais (which has no railroad
since the lumber barons stripped the
country and went on their destructive
way) and then on another four miles over
the hills and through the edge of Grand
Sable Lake to the lovely spot on the shore
where Mr. Hill had a concrete foundation
built ready to be used at once.
Mr. and Mrs. Cunliff came, too, motoring
up with an expert workman from the
cooperage shop, and an experienced
carpenter from the Reid, Murdoch & Co.
force, and. Arthur, who was destined to
assist in everything—car driving, well
digging, fence making, gardening and
boating—and to excel in everything
except the last mentioned. And Arthur’s
opinion of the motor in that boat and
that steering gear is best left out of the
story. We have no place for shadows in it.
They worked for two weeks with the aid
of the whole Hill family, Capt. Truesdale,
“The barrels are built of white spruce staves, two inches thick.”
retired commander of the Government
Life Saving Station, and other local
friends, and marvel of marvels, the little
place was actually completed—beds
made, floors scrubbed, and even flowers
arranged by Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Belknap,
only a few hours before our party
motored in.
Trouble Enough for Everyone
The barrels were set up first on their
foundations, just like barrels. Then they
began to draw them in, and trouble
began, especially with the big one. A
stave or two cracked and had to be
bolted together. But before windows and
doors were cut they were as tight as
could be and the big one would have held
21,000 gallons; the little one, 3,500
gallons.
Just for fun, Mrs. Cunliff had the men
lower her inside after the big barrel was
up and intact, and she said it was so
tight she could hardly hear any noises
outside.
Then they began cutting windows and
doors, and things began to happen.
Ultimately, the front door had to be made
bigger at the top to allow for the bilge in
the barrel—but the odd shape adds a lot
to the attractiveness of the house. Then
the small square swinging windows—
there are four upstairs, two in the living
room, three in the kitchen, and windows
in each door—had to be cut out, and all
the downstairs ones, cut where the barrel
begins to bulge out, had to be
strengthened underneath with bars and
bolts, good stout strips of heavy wood
securely bolted on. Also, the windows
had to be set in peculiarly. Oh, it took
careful expert figuring at every stage of
the building! When Mr. Stevens
suggested having a duplicate, Mr. Cunliff
threw up his hands and vowed, “Never
again!” Only those who were there and
working will, I fancy, ever know exactly
how hard a task it was. I, who am so
greatly benefited by their labors, try to
visualize and understand but it’s hard to
do so fully, though I do most thoroughly
appreciate it all.
Think of a Barrel 16 Feet High!
The barrels are built of white spruce
“Great trees crowd down to the very edge of the lake as though they were thirsty and were trying to drink.”
staves two inches thick. The big one is 16
feet in height. The little one is 8 feet high.
In the big one there is, downstairs, a
room twelve feet in diameter, with a door
right in the center of the front. As you
enter, you see to the left a winding
stairway, and built under it is a bunk
which has beneath it a box for bedding
and on it a specially constructed and
extremely comfortable mattress. Of
course, the bunk curves—but it is a
remarkably comfortable bed.
In the center is a round table, built
inside the house and destined never to go
out of it, for it couldn’t possibly pass
through either door. It has legs and cross
pieces from little birch trees, with the
bark left on, —trees Mrs. Cunliff went
out and selected herself—and I hereby
solemnly promise and vow to beat any
one who strips off a bit of that beautiful
white bark, and to thank any one who
helps me to keep it on. There are a dozen
big comfortable folding La Pont camp
chairs with arms and eventually,
opposite the stairway, there’s to be a
little open face stove. We are afraid to
weaken the barrel by cutting a fireplace
into it, and they certainly do keep cold
nights in stock up at Grand Marais.
Curtains and Rugs To Make Things
Homey
On the floor are two dark brown and tan
rugs, at the windows are the most
demure curtains of tan with tiny little
blue and brown leaves on them, taupe
portieres hang at the door to the rest of
the house, and the lanterns which hang
from the roof are one of the most unique
touches to the whole house. They are
made from Monarch Teenie Weenie
barrels, with alternate staves sawed out
and fat squatty, yellow candles set inside!
On the built-in bunk is a marvelous tan
Hudson Bay blanket striped in blue and
brown and yellow, and there’s even a
strip of hemstitched tan linen for the
table!
A door directly opposite the front door,
leads into a straight little entry, or
pantry, with an outside door having a
window in it, and to the right, opposite
this “back door” are shelves which we
found stocked with
There are two fine
as pretty a set of
work shelves and
dishes as ever eyes
storage shelves over
the windows.
rested upon, a
There’s a wonderful
saucy tea pot, table
oil stove with an
silver, and a stock
oven that just
of all sorts of good
tempts you to bake,
Monarch Quality
fresh shiny cooking
Food Products,
pans gleam from
while underneath
the walls, and the
was a box which
store of sugar and
was packed tight
flour and so on is
with towels of every
all put up in the
sort, bed linen, two
“A real beaver dam built by the beavers in Teenie Weenie Land.”
Teenie Weenie
sets of lunch cloths
and napkins, one yellow, one blue. From
pickle barrels, duly labeled, while for tin
this pantry you enter the kitchen.
cups and milk pails we use the Teenie
Weenie peanut butter tins There are two
Maybe it is because I like cooking better
bigger barrels, of solid oak, cut into the
than I do any other sort of house work,
duckiest tubs you ever saw, and as for
and having published a cook book,
the roof—well I want to do all my work
consider I can claim cooking as a
looking up, for the roof is like a huge
specialty, but that kitchen is to my mind
the very best room in the house. Its three Japanese umbrella.
windows let in plenty of light and air and
their odd shape gives us cold storage
space between the window frames and
the screens, on the broad out side sills.
Ice Water from a Little Red Pump
Right by the back door is a giddy red
pump, which yields water so cold Mr.
Donahey says it is too cold to drink.
Against a huge white birch near it is built
a handy, pretty wash stand. Broad
fungus growths have been knocked off
other trees and nailed upside down on
this one to make soap dishes and shelves
for nail brushes, tooth paste, and the
other cleansing things which folks now
consider necessary, even when “roughing
it.”
We are expecting to find a cracked bit of
looking glass to nail near them. No one
ever saw an outside toilet place with a
looking glass that wasn’t cracked! At
present we have one small mirror
amongst the four of us, and we women
rush it upstairs to do our hair, and then
the men want to shave and shriek for it.
So if we don’t find the sort of cracked
glass soon, we may have to crack a
perfectly good one in order to keep peace
in the family and have things in keeping,
at one and the same time.
The Big Room Upstairs
Then there is the bedroom, up stairs. It is
the largest of the rooms, as its floor
comes at the bilge of the barrel, and so is
sixteen feet in diameter. It has four
windows which look out into trees and
over the lake, two of the most
comfortable cots ever slept on, two brown
and white rag rugs, heaps of soft, brown
blankets, and the same cunning little
curtains of blue and brown and tan. Also
they’ve built me a typewriter place under
one of the windows, and I pray that some
day I may learn to work at it without
pausing every little while to watch the
sparkle on the blue water or the moss on
a white birch!
The ceiling is like that of the kitchen,
only bigger—and even prettier. All the
place is done in blue and brown and tan
and yellow, and the unpainted sides of
the barrel give the rooms a wonderful soft
yellowish light. I never want any paint or
stain to touch them.
Outside—oh, if I could only describe the
outside adequately! I can try to do it!
Right on the Shore of the Lake
The Barrel faces almost due South, and
right before it lies lovely Grand Sable
“The Barrel faces almost due South and right before it lies lovely Grand Sable Lake.”
Lake, about half a mile wide here, with a
heavily wooded shore across the way—
hard wood, with cedar, tamarack and big
spruce, pushing up like tall slim spires of
darkest green. Right across is a place
where every evening the deer come down
to drink. Herons and cranes fly near and
watch us; loons call at night—and we
look out at the water between the boles of
white birch, with a few small spruce
silhouetted in dark green against the
vivid rippling blue.
A woods road winds past the barrel,
curving each way, lined with tall trees.
Behind us is dense growth—so dense it’s
hard to walk through it, and Mr. Stevens
and Mr. Donahey have chopped and
blazed paths. For we want to go, not only
to enjoy the woods now full of wild
flowers most of which I never even saw
before, but also because behind us, to
the North, lie sand dunes, —great tall
cliff-like dunes, softly rolling ones, not
filled with growth as are those farther
South, but with only a fringe of
evergreen, and a mere faint wash of
rough green grass and a small
sprinkling, just now, of tiny delicate
white flowers, which have no leaf, but
star the sand with their small, brave
flecks of lovely white.
From the top of the very nearest dune we
can see Lake Superior deeply blue, the
largest body of pure fresh water in the
world, lying against the sky. And we can
see, too, the miles of strange sand
formation—a desert penned here between
two lakes, bordered by great forests,
which add a beautiful diversity to our
landscape.
Before the house is a tiny dock, at which
a big flat bottomed boat bobs as
contentedly as a barn yard duck on her
home pond, and at its stern is the
shrouded form of that borrowed motor,
and in that boat we can go up and down
the miles of shore on which are only
three other buildings—two beautifully
located deserted farm houses, and a little
building in a sort of park Grand Marais
maintains on the Eastern beach.
Our Outdoor Garage
It’s at that beach we leave our cars.
Others are not so timid! They drive right
into the lake where it laps the feet of the
steeply uprising dunes, drive along,
sometimes half in water, sometimes all in
it, and then climb out into Teenie Weenie
Land and down that winding road until
our strange house comes into sight—my
fairy house! I wonder what the children
think who come to it! They’re too shy to
say! I’ve had no time to make friends
with them yet so that I could really
discover.
“A fairy waterfall came tumbling down over the rocks.”
But they must in truth believe that they
are in Teenie Weenie Land. For there it
stands among the trees, a great barrel,
shape and color exact, hoops about it,
even the label, Monarch Teenie Weenies,
and the Teenie Weenie figures branded
on its sides, and behind it the smaller
duplicate barrel that is the kitchen. They
see the figures of two Teenie Weenies,
sawed out and presented by some
admirer of the pickles, standing nearby;
they are greeted by excited barking from
a pretty little yellow fox—every one up
here speaks of our Buddie dog’s
resemblance to a fox—which must seem
magical to them and then from this fairy
land step four adult and very well grown
humans! It must be a shock to the
youngsters, especially those grounded in
fairy lore, or those with vivid
imaginations. But inside they may be
happier, for Reid, Murdoch & Co.
supplied tiny presents for children who
visited there the first week or two—
Teenie Weenie Pickles, each in a bottle,
and the smallest of jars of Teenie Weenie
Peanut Butter and peanut butter pails on
which the Teenie Weenies are pictured,
and little books made like the barrel,
containing verses telling about the Teenie
Weenie pickle works!
These things may satisfy them. At least
they seem to be pleased with their visits.
And they ought to know! We can’t tell
exactly how many children have come.
We’ve been too busy to count! But the
first day we were in over two hundred
people came, after we began counting,
and many of them were children—
though it was a lot like the circus!
Two Hundred Visitors!
One child was frequently the excuse for
the arrival of half a dozen grown ups! We
had not expected anything like it. Here
we were, in about as wild and sparsely
settled a place as can be found. Four
miles from the nearest town, part of that
distance through water more than hub
deep, on the edge of shifting sucking
sand piles, thirty miles from a railroad
and yet, the first day we were in, over two
hundred people arrived to see the barrel,
about which they had been hearing—but
which had only been under construction
for two weeks! And they have been
coming ever since, from twenty to two
hundred a day! Folks have motored on
purpose to see our unique abode all the
way from Marquette and Detroit. Before
long I’m expecting them to swim down
from Canada and fly over from New York
and San Francisco, at this rate!
Early Sunday Morning
We were wakened before six Sun day
morning by the last thing we had
expected to hear in our sylvan retreat,
“There it stands among the trees, a great barrel, and behind it, the smaller barrel that is the kitchen.”
protected from cars as we thought by
that stretch of sand and water—the rush
of auto wheels— the grinding of brakes.
“Well,” exclaimed a feminine voice, “I
didn’t hear about this place till
yesterday—but say, ain’t it the berries?”
That party did not get in—for reasons.
Neither did the last two which arrived
way after dark, one when we were all
preparing for bed, the last after everyone
but Mr. Stevens was tucked in.
He was taking his time, when the last
motor sounded. He and Mr. Donahey
occupy the down stairs room so as the
curtains were not drawn, he made a
grand gesture, blew out all the candles at
once and finished his bed-going in the
dark!
Well, all those people certainly did
admire the house! They were of every sort
and variety—of many nationalities. There
were Finnish and Swedish farmers with
broods of silent, well-mannered blond
babies, the women eager and voluble, the
men silent and appreciative of the
building difficulties involved. All of them
seemed to like it, too.
Everybody Came
There were French folk, too, some who
showed Indian blood, and plenty of good
native old American stock. Really old
people came— babies in arms, and every
age in between. And they were so
appreciative.
Tired? I got so tired I’d flop down and
swear, “Not another one will I show
through—not one will I speak to!” And
then I’d see children in the on-coming
car, or the eager eyes of some farm wife
who maybe hadn’t had a new thing to
look at or hear about at first hand for
years, or shy interested young chaps who
were coveting the place for a hunting
lodge, or pretty girls who were thinking
what a peach of a honeymoon cottage it
would make—and I just couldn’t stay
put. Out I’d pile and at it I’d go, —”Would
you like to come in? Why, certainly—glad
to.”
There was one time in the after noon
when I felt like a side showman in a dime
museum. So many had come at once I
had to run the little place exactly like a
side show.
“Just a moment, please,” I’d call from the
vantage point of the front door, “it isn’t
very big you know—all the people are in
now it will hold. My walls bulge already—
I don’t want them to bulge apart. Now
then—next please—oh, not so many. No,
no, you haven’t been here as long as
these people—they must go in first. Your
baby? Why, of course he can go in with
you—I just thought he belonged to this
other set. Now then, pass out the back
door, please, and make way for the next
party.”
The Men Disappeared
Mrs. Stevens all this time was doing the
honors inside and trying to see that each
child had a gift of some sort, but our
husky, hearty men folk? Why, they—took
to the dunes! As they saw the crowds
beginning to appear, they hiked. And as
for Bud, he barked conscientiously at the
autos for a while, then gave it up as a
bad job. It was too much to expect one
small dog to look after so many strangers
“They are greeted by excited barking from a pretty little yellow fox.”
at once, and he scented out the retiring
party, and joined the renegade members
of his own sex, only returning, like them,
when he was good and hungry.
Many, many people have passed in under
our funny little porch roof, between our
Teenie Weenie barrel lanterns. I expect a
very great many more will come, for we
hear that the fame of the place is
spreading.
But I don’t mind. It’s fun except on the
very, very rare occasions when folks act
as if it was a public museum and I a
hired showman here to do their bidding.
YOU Are Welcome, Too
I don’t blame anybody for wanting to see
it. I’d want to see it, too, for a more
unique place never was known. It is
undoubtedly the only house ever built in
a cooperage, with barrel staves for walls!
It’s as attractive inside as it is out. And
I’m so happy to own it that I’ll welcome
anybody to its quaint little door yard,
“A woods road winds past the Barrel curving each way.”
bordered by its white birch boles and the
hedge of tiny spruces.
And never, never again can any one
make me believe in the sordidness or
selfishness of big business concerns.
One has turned fairy godfather to me,
and sent me to live in an enchanted
forest. I can only hold my breath and give
thanks for every stave in my magic
barrel, every tree in the mystic woods,
every ripple of the fairy lake.
“We started the busy motor and skimmed
over to the far side of the lake.”
I can’t tell why I’ve got it, but I have—and
I certainly am glad of it.