"She's come! she's come!"
Every one looked up; and I saw a large white bird slowly flying over the island. On its back sat the nicest old woman that ever was seen: all the others were nothing compared to her. She had a pointed hat on over her cap, a red cloak, high-heeled shoes, and a crutch in her hand. She smiled and nodded as the bird approached; and every one ran and nodded, and screamed, "Welcome! welcome, mother!"
As soon as she touched the ground, she was so surrounded that I could only see the top of her hat; for hundreds and hundreds of little children suddenly appeared, like a great flock of birds,—rosy, happy, pretty children; but all looked unreal, and among them I saw some who looked like little people I had known long ago.
"Who are they?" I asked of a bonny lass, who was sitting on a cushion, eating strawberries and cream.
"They are the phantoms of all the little people who ever read and loved our mother's songs," said the maid.
"What did she write?" I asked, feeling very queer, and as if I was going to remember something.
"Songs that are immortal; and you have them in your hand," replied the bonny maid, smiling at my stupidity.
I looked; and there, on the cover of the book I
