s a little
meadow for pasture, and a grove of little trees; and there was also a
small field of sweet marjoram, where the blossoms were so tiny that you
could hardly have seen them without a magnifying glass.

It was not very far from this cottage to the sweet marjoram country,
and the fairy sisters had no trouble at all in running down there
whenever they felt like it, but none of the people had ever seen this
little home. They had looked for it, but could not find it, and the
fairies would never take any of them to it. They said it was no place
for human beings. Even the smallest boy, if he were to trip his toe,
might fall against their house and knock it over; and as to any of them
coming into the fairy grounds, that would be impossible, for there was
no spot large enough for even a common-sized baby to creep about in.

On Sweet Marjoram Day the fairies never failed to come. Every year they
taught the people new games, and all sorts of new ways of having fun.
People would never have even thought of having such good times if it
had not been for these fairies.

One delightful afternoon, about a month before Sweet Marjoram Day,
Corette, who was a little girl just old enough, and not a day too old
(which is exactly the age all little girls ought to be), was talking
about the fairy cottage to some of her companions.

"We never can see it," said Corette, sorrowfully.

"No," said one of the other girls, "we are too big. If we were little
enough, we might go."

"Are you sure the sisters would be glad to see us, then?" asked
Corette.

"Yes, I heard them say so. But it doesn't matter at all, as we are not
little enough."

"No," said Corette, and she went off to take a walk by herself.

She had not walked far before she reached a small house which stood by
the sea-shore. This house belonged to a Reformed Pirate who lived there
all by himself. He had entirely given up a sea-faring life so as to
avoid all temptation, and he employed his time in the mildest pursuits
he could think of.

When Corette came to his house, she saw him sitting in an easy-chair in
front of his door near the edge of a small bluff which overhung the
sea, busily engaged in knitting a tidy.

When he saw Corette, he greeted her kindly, and put aside his knitting,
which he was very glad to do, for he hated knitting tidies, though he
thought it was his duty to make them.

"Well, my little maid," he said, in a sort of a muffled voice, which
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