o associate with people; they haven't
got the time to bother with us. They go grumbling about, muttering:
"Somebody sat on my rock; somebody sat on my rock."

I would like to see them and find out what they are so busy about; see
the patterns of their leathery little clothes; their high hats, leathery
capes and aprons. Some time I will see them. I am not familiar with all
this, but I imagine very thick leather belts and buckles. Their feet are
small, but too big _for them_, and make a little clatter as they go over
the rocks. Their hands I cannot see; they must be under the cape or
somewhere that I do not know of.

The Spring, I think, is the best time for the little green woodsmen. The
trees are beginning to get pale-green buds, and the ground is all damp
from being frozen so long. The woodsmen sing a great deal then and laugh
and talk. They come to the edge of the river when a boat comes in, but
if one moves quickly they all run away.

I think there must have been many happy little fairies and cross old
gnomes in the northern woods where I stayed a week last summer. There
were so many great rocks, so many trees and all. Many mysteries must
have floated around me wanting me to play with them, but I wasn't ready.
Fairies were only a dream to me then. But some time I must have been a
friend of the fairies, for it seems to me that I have seen them, and
spent a good deal of time with them, because the memories are still with
me. I will spend most of my spare time with them next summer and learn
much more about them.

* * * * *

... She could get no further on the Chinese picture, except that the low
street lamps were shaped like question-marks. I told her there was
something in that street if she could find it, suggesting that she might
think hard about it the last thing at night before she went to sleep,
but I have heard nothing further. On occasions I have been stopped
short. For instance, yesterday the little girl began to tell me
something with great care, and I was away until she was in the middle of
the story, and the intimate gripping thing about it aroused me. I told
her to write the thing down just as she had told it, with this result:

"... Every little while, when I am not thinking of any one
thing, there is a voice inside. It seems to be telling me
something, but I never know what it says. I never wanted or
tried to know until a month ago, but it stops be