wouldn't.

Then she threatened to "give him the stick," but it was no use.

The more she begged and scolded, the more he shook his head; and when at
last she lost patience and cried that the fairies would surely come and
fetch him away, he only laughed and said he wished they _would_, for he
would like one to play with.

At that his mother burst into tears, and went off to bed in despair,
certain that after such words something dreadful would happen; while her
naughty little son sat on his stool by the fire, not at all put out by
her crying.

But he had not long been sitting there alone, when he heard a
fluttering sound near him in the chimney and presently down by his side
dropped the tiniest wee girl you could think of; she was not a span
high, and had hair like spun silver, eyes as green as grass, and cheeks
red as June roses. The little boy looked at her with surprise.

"Oh!" said he; "what do they call ye?"

"My own self," she said in a shrill but sweet little voice, and she
looked at him too. "And what do they call ye?"

"Just my own self too!" he answered cautiously; and with that they began
to play together.

She certainly showed him some fine games. She made animals out of the
ashes that looked and moved like life; and trees with green leaves
waving over tiny houses, with men and women an inch high in them, who,
when she breathed on them, fell to walking and talking quite properly.

But the fire was getting low, and the light dim, and presently the
little boy stirred the coals with a stick to make them blaze; when out
jumped a red-hot cinder, and where should it fall, but on the fairy
child's tiny foot.

Thereupon she set up such a squeal, that the boy dropped the stick, and
clapped his hands to his ears but it grew to so shrill a screech, that
it was like all the wind in the world whistling through one tiny
keyhole.

There was a sound in the chimney again, but this time the little boy did
not wait to see what it was, but bolted off to bed, where he hid under
the blankets and listened in fear and trembling to what went on.

A voice came from the chimney speaking sharply:

"Who's there, and what's wrong?" it said.

"It's my own self," sobbed the fairy-child; "and my foot's burnt sore.
O-o-h!"

"Who did it?" said the voice angrily; this time it sounded nearer, and
the boy, peeping from under the clothes, could see a white face looking
out from the chimney-opening.

"Just my own self too!" s