now, lest
our wings scorch. So we seldom get any fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette,
will you make us some?"

"Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must tell me how."

"It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and honey dew, stirred
from left to right with a sprig of fennel. Here's the seed and the
fennel, and here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if you
don't, it curdles, and the flavour will be spoiled."

Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly,
quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread
the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for
Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade,
and when the soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they
feasted! No bumblebee, dipping into a flower-cup, ever sipped and
twinkled more rapturously than they.

When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go. Each in turn kissed
Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell. Thistle brushed his
feathered cap over the doorpost as he passed.

"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received and entertained the
luck-bringers. And be lucky, Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and
sweet words and kind looks and peace in the heart are the fairest of
fortunes. See that you never lose them again, my girl." With this, he,
too, kissed Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and--whir! they
all were gone, while Toinette, covering the fire with ashes and putting
aside the little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child.

FOOTNOTE:

[E] Published by arrangement with Little, Brown & Co.

IX

THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP[F]

RUTH SAWYER DURAND

It was the night of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with
naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal, and
a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the water-bucket
outside the door. The tuft was near burnt on the hearth--a handful of
golden cinders left, just; and Teig took to counting them greedily on
his fingers.

"There's one, two, three, an' four an' five," he laughed. "Faith, there
be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay in the corner."

It was the truth; and it was the scraping and scrooching for the last
piece that had left Teig's cupboard bare of a Christmas dinner.

"Gold is betther nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'. An' if ye have naught to
give, there'll be naught asked of ye;" and he laughed again.