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The Selkie's Song|The Opal Dream Cave




"It is very strange," whispered one reed to another, "that the queen bee never guides her swarm to the aspen-tree."


"Indeed, it is strange," said the other. "The oak and the willow often have swarms, but I have never seen a single one on the aspen. What can be the reason?”

"The queen bee cannot bear the aspen," said the first. "Very likely she has some good reason for despising it. I do not think that an insect as wise as she would despise a tree without any reason. Many wicked things happen that no one knows."

The reeds did not think that anyone could hear what they said, but both the willow and the aspen heard every word. The aspen was so furious that it trembled from root to tip. “I’ll soon see why that proud queen bee despises me,” it said. “She shall guide a swarm to my branches or —”

"Oh, I would not care for what those reeds say," the willow-tree broke in. "They are the greatest chatterers in the world. They are always whispering together, and they always have something unkind to say."

But the aspen-tree was too angry to be still, and it called out to the reeds, “You are only lazy whisperers. I do not care what you say. I despise both you and your queen bee. The honey that those bees make is not good to eat. I would not have it anywhere near me.”

"Hush, hush," whispered the willow timidly. "The reeds will repeat every word that you say."

"I do not care if they do," said the aspen haughtily. "I despise both them and the bees."

The reeds did whisper the bitter words of the aspen to the queen bee, and she said, “I was going to guide my swarm to the aspen, but now I will drive the tree out of the forest. Come, my bees, come!”

Then the bees flew by hundreds upon the aspen. They stung every leaf and every twig through and through. The tree was driven from the forest, over the prairie, over the river, over the fields; and still the angry bees flew after it and stung it again and again. When they had come to the rocky places, they left it and flew back to the land of flowers. The aspen never came back. Its bright green leaves had grown white through fear and, from that day to this, they have trembled as they did when the bees were stinging them and driving the tree from the forest.
— Why The Aspen Leaves Tremble, by Florence Holbrook.

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf. — Rabindranath Tagore.

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of 
Time like dew on the tip of a leaf. 
— Rabindranath Tagore.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Outside my window the balcony is covered with a whirl of fire-red leaves from the virginia creeper. Today it is raining and blowing and they are flying hither and thither or gathered in corners, sodden with wet… All Summer the wooden pilasters of the balcony have been covered with greenest leaves and pinkest sweetpie flower. Now even the horse-chestnut has begun to wither. The chestnuts fall every now and then with quite a rustle and thud, and the whole house at the garden side is covered with a crimson ruin of creeper and the sunflowers are all leaning down, weighted by their heavy seeds.— Letter To A Friend, by William Butler Yeats.Artwork by Susan Loy.

Outside my window the balcony is covered with a whirl of fire-red leaves from the virginia creeper. Today it is raining and blowing and they are flying hither and thither or gathered in corners, sodden with wet… All Summer the wooden pilasters of the balcony have been covered with greenest leaves and pinkest sweetpie flower. Now even the horse-chestnut has begun to wither. The chestnuts fall every now and then with quite a rustle and thud, and the whole house at the garden side is covered with a crimson ruin of creeper and the sunflowers are all leaning down, weighted by their heavy seeds.
— Letter To A Friend, by William Butler Yeats.

Artwork by Susan Loy.

(Source: faeryhearts)

(Source: crisp-leaves)

(Source: faeryhearts)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Goldilocks who lived at the edge of the forest with her family…Artwork: Goldilocks, by Ruth Sanderson.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Goldilocks who lived at the edge of the forest with her family…

Artwork: Goldilocks, by Ruth Sanderson.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Listen! The wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves,We have had our Summer evenings, now for October eves!— Humbert Wolfe.Artwork: Nature’s Hymn, by Lourry Legarde.

Listen! The wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves,
We have had our Summer evenings, now for October eves!
— Humbert Wolfe.

Artwork: Nature’s Hymn, by Lourry Legarde.

(Source: faeryhearts)


Somewhere between the buzz of Indian Summer locusts and the deafening silence of new fallen snow is a fleeting, exhilarating bliss known as Autumn. It arrives in radiant splendour, summoning our primal urges to feather our nests. The aroma of tea and soup is more enticing and we find a hundred ways to savour an apple. Cords of seasoned hickory are stacked outside in anticipation of a roaring heart
h as we greet the longer nights with cosy bedclothes. The moon demands more attention, luring us into a state of Halloween lunacy. Masquerade and ghost stories appease our hunger for intrigue. We stock up on candles, sensing the dramatic excitement that rivals the energy of those scurrying bushy tails.
Randy and Melissa Rolston.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Artwork: October, by Kelsey Garrity Riley.

Artwork: October, by Kelsey Garrity Riley.

(Source: faeryhearts)

(Source: happy-april)

(Source: thatwetshirt)


Fangirl Challenge

[6/15] pairings » Jane Austen + Tom Lefroy (Becoming Jane)

What value will there ever be in life, if we are not together?

(Source: weasleygeorged)

Artwork: Mouse On Toadstool, by Carl Whitfield.

Artwork: Mouse On Toadstool, by Carl Whitfield.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Dogs are our link to Paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring — it was peace.— Milan Kundera.Artwork by Claire Fletcher.

Dogs are our link to Paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring — it was peace.
— Milan Kundera.

Artwork by Claire Fletcher.

(Source: faeryhearts)

Just as a child is born with a literal hole in his head, where the bones slowly close underneath the fragile shield of skin, so the child is born with a figurative hole in his heart. What slips in before it anneals shapes the man or woman into which that child will grow. Story is one of the most serious intruders into the heart. Children’s books change lives. Stories pour into the hearts of children and help make them what they become. — Terri Windling.

Just as a child is born with a literal hole in his head, where the bones slowly close underneath the fragile shield of skin, so the child is born with a figurative hole in his heart. What slips in before it anneals shapes the man or woman into which that child will grow. Story is one of the most serious intruders into the heart. Children’s books change lives. Stories pour into the hearts of children and help make them what they become. 
Terri Windling.

(Source: faeryhearts)

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