exaction of dire forfeits from any wanton
human churl found guilty of mutilating a
silver birch tree, stripping it even of an
inch of tender skin, thus entailing upon
it decay and death.

Other of the maidens were gathering
fagots for an outdoor fire to the tune of
a version of Andrew's song, not without
humor in the present crisis:

/*
"Singing whack fol de ri do,
'T will[** 'Twill] comfort their souls,
To get such fine fagots,
When they've got no coals!"
*/

One, brisk spoon in hand, was busily
stirring some fairy brew, batter rather--an
older figure superintending, Queen
Mab herself maybe, having a golden sunburst
embroidered upon the heaving
emerald of her breast.

Now! to these came forth two other
maidens, emerging, breathless, from the
Pinnacle pines, and made the hand-sign
of fire.

Up went gracefully a dozen green arms,
[[100]]

p099 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p100w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p101

v?