en Robin Goodfellow came to take him home as usual he durst not let
him know that he had overheard anything; but never was the boy so
unwilling to get up as on that morning, and all day he was so weary that
in the afternoon Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on a clump of
rushes. It was seldom that any one thought of looking after him and the
sickly sheep; but it so happened that towards evening the old shepherd,
Fleecefold, thought he would see how things went on in the pastures. The
shepherd had a bad temper and a thick staff, and no sooner did he catch
sight of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock straying away, than shouting
all the ill names he could remember, in a voice which woke up the boy,
he ran after him as fast as his great feet would allow; while Fairyfoot,
seeing no other shelter from his fury, fled into the forest, and never
stopped nor stayed till he reached the banks of a little stream.

Thinking it might lead him to the fairies' dancing-ground, he followed
that stream for many an hour, but it wound away into the heart of the
forest, flowing through dells, falling over mossy rocks, and at last
leading Fairyfoot, when he was tired and the night had fallen, to a
grove of great rose-trees, with the moon shining on it as bright as day,
and thousands of nightingales singing in the branches. In the midst of
that grove was a clear spring, bordered with banks of lilies, and
Fairyfoot sat down by it to rest himself and listen. The singing was so
sweet he could have listened for ever, but as he sat the nightingales
left off their songs, and began to talk together in the silence of the
night.

"What boy is that," said one on a branch above him, "who sits so lonely
by the Fair Fountain? He cannot have come from Stumpinghame with such
small and handsome feet."

"No, I'll warrant you," said another, "he has come from the west
country. How in the world did he find the way?"

"How simple you are!" said a third nightingale. "What had he to do but
follow the ground-ivy which grows over height and hollow, bank and bush,
from the lowest gate of the king's kitchen garden to the root of this
rose-tree? He looks a wise boy, and I hope he will keep the secret, or
we shall have all the west country here, dabbling in our fountain, and
leaving us no rest to either talk or sing."

Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at this discourse, but by and by,
when the talk ceased and the songs began, he thought it might be as well
for h