They had paints, and they had pencils, they had canvas, bruch, and pen,
And theh prettiest little easels that were never made for men,
And down they sat and set to work, and ere the night was past
The room was full of pictures, each prettier than the last.
And then they took the verses I'd been trying to indite,
And finished them quite easily - as fairies always write;
And in a fairy printing press (I wish that you had seen them)
They printed them and published them with pictures in between them.
And when the work was finished, they made a courtly bow,
As if to say, "We've helped you, I trust you will allow!"
And then upstairs the little folks my wondering footsteps led,
And placed the books in silence by each happy dreaming head.
And that is why, my little ones, the pictures come and go
In the quaint and funny fashion that only faires know;
For when they take to making books, I don't think you can doubt them,
They're sure to have some magic and some mystery about them.