What a pleasant thing it is to be able to say of a boy, He is the strongest boy in the village—or the most honest boy in the village—or the kindest boy in the village—or, nicest of all,—He is the best boy in the village; and what a sad thing it is to say of a boy, He is the worst boy in the village; and that is what everybody said of Peter.

He was a tease and a bully—and a bully is always a coward, you know. The little girls at school avoided him. They never knew what minute he would pull their hair, or stick out his foot suddenly and trip them up.

The animals feared him, and the meanest thing a boy can do, even worse than pulling a little girl's hair, is to be unkind to animals, or even to tease them. No boy who likes to play fair will do it; for animals cannot speak, or defend themselves.

Peter's dog wanted to love him, as dogs always do, but he couldn't trust his master. When they went out together, the dog, whose name was Pat, followed at a little distance. He wanted to go with Peter, but he was afraid of the heavy shoe that could suddenly fly out and hurt him.

So Peter lost all the best part of life by being sulky and dishonest and spending his time thinking up mischievous things to do. There was another boy in the village where Peter lived whom he especially disliked. This boy's name was Lawrence, and the reason Peter hated him was that although smaller than himself, Lawrence had once or twice jumped to the defence of some girl or boy whom Peter was hurting, and driven the bigger boy off with his fists.

Peter was scowling and thinking about Lawrence one day as he was trudging along the dusty road, Pat following at a safe distance. The dog was hoping that pretty soon his master wouldn't look so cross and that he would dare to go closer. Once in a while when Peter felt good-natured he used to throw sticks for Pat to run after and bring back, and Pat loved that.

Well, Peter trudged along with his hands in his pockets, but not whistling as happy boys do. His eyes were on the dusty road as he thought about Lawrence and wished he could beat him. He had once found a penny as he walked along this road and he was thinking about that, too, and wishing he could find another. He began to wonder what he would buy with it if he could find one.

All at once he noticed a shining little object lying by the roadside. He went toward it and Pat noticed his movement and saw as quickly as Peter did that the shining object was a little stick. The dog's ears and tail went up gladly. If Peter was going to pick up a stick, that meant that he would throw it and they would have a game. Pat ran in front of Peter and got in his way and the impatient boy gave him a kick.

Down went Pat's ears and tail, and crying out, he ran away to a safe distance, while Peter stooped to the strange, small, shining object. It was very smooth and looked like silver. It was probably more valuable than a penny, and the boy picked it up. He would hide it and wait to see if he could hear anything of the owner, and then make him pay a good price for it.

Peter's eyes shone with satisfaction at this thought, and he picked up the silver stick. It was different from anything he had ever seen and he wondered what its owner used it for.

He had no sooner grasped it and stood up than he began to sail gently up into the air. He was so astonished that his eyes nearly fell out; but it was pleasant, too, to be wafted gently up and up as if he were a fluff of thistledown instead of a clumsy country boy with the heavy shoes that poor Pat feared.

Little by little the road and trees and houses and barns and broad fields below him faded out of sight. "How far can I go?" wondered Peter, and he grasped the satin-smooth little stick closer than ever. He felt sure that if he dropped it he would go to the earth with a bump that would give him a severe headache; for surely his rise in the world must have had something to do with this shining thing which gleamed now between his brown, and not very clean, fingers.

He looked at it as he sailed, and suddenly there came to him a remembrance of stories he had heard in the village about fairies—fairies with wands. Yes, every fairy had a wand, and by waving this wand he could go everywhere and get everything he wanted.

"I wonder if I'm a fairy now," muttered Peter, "that I feel so light. Have I got wings, and am I flying?"

He looked over the shoulder of his old, brown coat, but there were no signs of wings there.

"Still, this must be a wand," said Peter to himself, "and I'll see if I can get anything with it."

The earth had vanished completely now, so he held out the silver stick and said, "I'm tired of standing up. I wish I had a nice, soft cloud to sit on."

No sooner had he made the wish than a lovely cloud floated toward him. It looked like a bank of swansdown. He climbed into it and sank luxuriously into the softness and lay there and wondered, looking at his shining treasure.

While he was musing he became conscious that he was not alone on the cloud; and raising himself on his elbow he looked down to the next terrace of fleecy white, and there sat the most charming little fairy you would care to see. Peter noticed at once that she carried a wand like his own, and that her wings, so thin and airy, yet looked strong enough to carry her slight figure.

She smiled up at him. "I'm so glad I found you, Peter," she said in a sweet voice. "I told Rose-Petal that I was sure I could, and that you would be glad to bring back her wand."

"Who is Rose-Petal?" asked Peter, gazing admiringly at his companion, who certainly could not have looked prettier anywhere than she did on that pure, fleecy-white cloud bank.

"Rose-Petal is the fairy who owns the wand you have. She lost it last night at a fire-fly ball, and though the fire-flies were very kind and held their lanterns and flew about looking everywhere they could think of, they couldn't find it. Rose-Petal is down beside the dusty road, now, where it is so hot that she feels as if she were wilting; so I know you won't keep her waiting."

The fairy sent another sweet and coaxing smile up at Peter but he frowned.

"It's queer that a fellow can't get away from people even if he climbs up on a cloud miles away from the earth," he said; for the last thing he was willing to do was to give back the wand to Rose-Petal.

"How did you find me?" he added, "and what is your name?"

"My name is Lily-bud, and I found you very easily, only I must say that if I had not seen Rose-Petal's wand in your hand I would have thought it was the wrong person."

"Well, it is the wrong person," said Peter crossly. "This wand is mine."

The fairy nodded sadly. "O, yes," she replied, "I see the Wise Woman was right. She said you told lies!"

"You want to be careful how you talk to me," said Peter very loud, and growing red in the face. "A little more and I'll knock you off this cloud."

Lily-bud laughed, and I can't tell you how pretty she looked when she laughed, because her tiny face had the sweetest dimple in one cheek and her blue eyes laughed, too.

Her gauzy wings opened and closed as a butterfly's will when it is resting on a flower.

"What difference would that make, you poor Peter?" she said.

Peter scowled because her manner and her words made him feel even smaller than she was.

"How did you find me, anyway?" he growled.

"O, I went to the Wise Woman under the hill. We fairies always go to her when we have a hard question; and we never had a harder one than this, for Rose-Petal is the first fairy I ever knew to lose her wand."

Lily-bud's smile vanished and Peter saw her lip tremble.

"Think of her down there, huddling near the root of a big tree. Supposing someone should step on her!"

"Why doesn't she fly up to a safe place then?" asked Peter sullenly. Lily-bud's lip might tremble all it wanted to, he was not going to give up his precious, shiny stick.

"Because without her wand her wings won't work," explained Lily-bud.

"What did that old, stupid Wise Woman tell you?" asked Peter. He was very cross at being found.

"She told me that Peter had found the wand and that he was the sort of boy who would not be willing to give it back, no matter how much Rose-Petal suffered."

Peter laughed. "She is a wise old thing, then," he said.

"I told her I couldn't believe it, for didn't all boys take care of girls? She said no, not all boys, and that Peter was one of the worst. He teased girls and hurt them and so he was a coward. He teased animals and hurt them and so he was a coward. He robbed the eggs out of birds' nests, and threw stones at the birds with a slingshot, and so he was a coward. He kicked his own dog that loved him, and so he was a coward."

Peter listened to all this and grew so hot and angry that he couldn't speak. Besides the anger, there was a very uncomfortable feeling in his breast. It came from the look of disgust in Lily-bud's eyes as they were fixed on him without any fear.

"If you were washed," she said, "and your shoes blacked, you wouldn't be bad looking. I should never think, just to look at you, that you were such a poor wretch."

Peter felt scarlet from head to foot.

"Once more," said Lily-bud. "I'll ask you once more to think of beautiful, bright Rose-Petal suffocating beside the dusty road, and ask you to give back her wand."

Peter was so ashamed that his ears burned and he couldn't meet Lily-bud's eyes, but he shook his head.

Lily-bud, without another word, rose lightly to the tips of her dainty toes, spread her gauzy wings, and flew off the cloud and was soon out of sight.

Peter was glad she was gone. What difference did it make to him what was thought of him by two fairies and an old crone of a Wise Woman? He had the wand. That was the main thing; for he had power now to do what he pleased, and the thing he was most anxious to do was to pay back Lawrence for interfering with him and spoiling his fun.

He waved the wand now and asked to go back to earth. He rose to the tips of his coarse shoes and at once floated gently off the cloud and began the descent.

The pleasant, cool air fanned him and seemed to bear him up on the charming journey. Soon the earth came into view and after awhile he began to recognize familiar objects, and after a bit he alighted at the very spot from which he had arisen.

"I like flying," he said to himself. "I shall do that every day."

Pat was running about, nosing the ground and peering into every nook and cranny in wonder where his master had disappeared. Had Pat been a boy he would have been very glad to have such a master disappear and would hope never to see him again; but dogs are different. Is it any wonder they are called the friends of man, when such treatment as Pat received cannot destroy their affection? One should be most kind to such faithful creatures. Don't you think so?

Well, Peter walked along in a very lordly way, feeling as if he owned the earth, and twirling the little stick that twinkled in the sunlight, and which was going to make him succeed in everything he wanted to do. He gave no thought to Rose-Petal hiding herself, dusty and forlorn, between the tree roots so that no one should step on her.

Pat recognized him and approached timidly and slowly, looking at his master out of the tops of his eyes.

"Hello, Pat," said Peter in the height of his good nature, and with a bound the happy dog was beside him, even daring to give one little jump up on him to tell him how glad he was that Peter wasn't lost.

He looked at the stick and wondered if his master was going to throw it for him to chase; but no, indeed, Peter would run no such risk of losing the wand.

"Besides," he thought, and the thought made him laugh, "if Pat should pick up this stick, he might float up into the sky and live with the dog-star forever, for he wouldn't know enough to ask to come down."

It made Pat so happy to hear his master laugh that he frolicked about as if he had never heard an unkind word in his life.

Peter even began humming a tune as he walked along, still twirling the stick. The forest bordered the road, and his eye caught sight of a handsome red-winged blackbird swinging on a bough. His eyes gleamed. It was such a beauty. He hurriedly picked up a stone.

"Hit the mark, Stone," he ordered gaily, and threw it with sure aim. In a minute he would have those wings to stick in his cap.

He ran forward toward the tree, when a wonderful thing happened. That little stone turned around in the air, and flying back at Peter struck him on the cheek with such a smart blow that a tiny trickle of blood ran down.

"Who did that? Who did that?" cried Peter, thinking at once of Lawrence and looking all around. He struck at Pat, but the dog avoided the blow.

The bird flew swiftly away, singing, "Foolish Peter, Foolish Peter," as he went.

It astonished the boy to understand the bird's song, but he was still so busy hunting for Lawrence, dodging behind some tree, that he did not pay much attention to it. Everything that happened to him lately was strange.

He walked along the road, his hand to his cheek. After awhile he came to the village square where the horse pond was. Many children he knew were there, and among them Lawrence.

"Aha, you ran faster than I did," muttered Peter, "but I will get even with you all the same."

Pat felt his mood, and came sedately after him, his tail hanging limply close to his hind legs.

Peter waved his shining wand and said, "I want Lawrence ducked in the horse pond," and he set himself to laugh at the other boy when he should see him struggling in the pond.

Instantly there was a splash, but it was Peter who was floundering in the water, choking and coughing and making great ado because he couldn't swim.

The children all gathered around, and because each of them had some unpleasant memory of Peter, they laughed even while some of them tried to help him. He was a funny object, kicking and spluttering and clutching the water, with his hair in his eyes.

"Here, Peter, hang on," said Lawrence, and bracing himself by holding to a post, he offered his foot to Peter, who managed to get hold of it and pull himself to the edge where he could climb out.

"Here you, keep out of that pond," said a man coming near and speaking angrily. "Don't you know enough not to try to swim in there?"

Peter crept away, dripping, from the laughter of the children, and Pat followed him close.

"Foolish Peter. Foolish Peter," sang a voice again. This time there was no bird and he thought it sounded like Lily-bud's voice, it was so small and sweet.

"How did I happen to trip and fall in there," the boy wondered as he hurried along.

The worst part of it was being helped out by Lawrence, and Lawrence had laughed too, laughed harder than anybody when Peter was safe on the ground, looking like a drowned rat.

"Foolish Peter," repeated the voice. "You might have made all those children love you, then nobody would have laughed at your troubles."

He hurried along, past the market wagons, and a horse accidentally hit him, turning his head. Peter drew back his foot to kick the horse, as he did Pat; and suddenly he received a kick in his own leg, so severe that it made him jump. He was sure, too, that he heard the horse say: "Foolish Peter," as he shook his head.

The boy hurried the faster, too blind with anger and with the water still dripping from his hair, to care where he was going. He saw that Pat was following on. There was one good thing about Pat. He couldn't laugh, and he couldn't talk and lecture him.

"Where was that Lily-bud, following him and nagging him?" He looked all about, but nothing was to be seen except the country road. His leg ached from the kick he had meant to give the horse, and his clothes stuck to him.

Ahead of him he now saw a huge, coarse bramble bush growing by the side of the road. Peter regarded it eagerly and looked about to see if he had lost the wand in the pond. No, there it was. It had fallen into a side-pocket and was glittering there.

Some one had fired a stone at him, he had tripped and fallen into the horse pond, and somebody hiding under a market wagon had kicked him, but here he was safe. He was the only person on the road, and the thorns on that bramble bush would stop Lawrence's laughing for some time anyway. Peter would sit here close to it by the roadside and laugh at him to his heart's content.

He took out the wand and waved it. "I wish Lawrence was in the middle of that bramble bush," he said.

Suddenly something began to scratch him like a thousand pins and he found himself in the midst of the brambles, which at every move made him squeal as he was scratched in a new place.

Before he managed to get out of that tormenting bush, Peter was a thoroughly frightened and suffering boy. Pat leaped about in distress and even made his own mouth sore trying to pull away the brambles so his master could escape.

At last Peter was free, and rolling to a safe spot on the grass, he set himself to pull out some of the thorns that stuck in his flesh. As he did so Pat licked the hurt places on his master's legs and arms and this, with the sight of the wounds on the dog's own lips, which he had suffered in trying to help Peter, brought tears to the boy's eyes. He put his arms around Pat, and the dog licked his master's cheek in his happiness.

"Wise Peter," said a voice. "Now there is hope."

Peter looked up and there sat Lily-bud swaying on a purple thistle. She smiled very kindly at the boy.

"You've had a hard time, haven't you?" she said.

Peter nodded. He was trying to stop the bleeding of Pat's lips with the edge of his soft, wet shirt. "I wish I had never kicked my dog," he said.

At that Lily-bud's face grew very happy. "Do you begin to see that you didn't understand how to use Rose-Petal's wand?" she asked.

Peter felt too crushed to speak. He shook his head.

"You see," explained Lily-bud, "that wand belongs to a good fairy."

Peter looked up at her and the truth began to come to him slowly. Lily-bud smiled and sat on her purple cushion and swayed, and let him think.

"Then I suppose it would cure Pat's mouth," he said eagerly, at last.

She nodded. "Try it," she answered.

Peter waved the glittering stick in his scratched hand. "I want Pat's mouth to be well," he said, and instantly the dog yawned and licked his chops with satisfaction, for they were as whole and comfortable as ever they were.

Peter gave him a hug. "How about my arms and legs?" he asked then, rather shamefaced.

Lily-bud shook her head. "Pat got his scratches in love," she said; and Peter looked off and began to think some more.

As soon as he dropped his hand from the dog, Pat would tuck his head under it again. It was so wonderful to have his master pet him. He couldn't get enough of it.

"Isn't it strange," said Lily-bud, "how much happiness children are willing to miss by not being kind? Do you think that ducking Lawrence in the pond would give you half as much fun as to see his face if you gave him something nice?"

"I could give him something nice with the wand," replied Peter.

Lily-bud nodded. "Yes," she answered.

Peter was thinking faster than he had ever thought in his life. "But I haven't any right to," he said.

"Why?" asked Lily-bud; but she looked very much pleased.

"Because it doesn't belong to me," he answered, and at this Lily-bud was so happy that she flew right over to him and alighted on his scratched hand.

"You are growing wise, Peter," she said.

"I have a knife that Lawrence thinks is the best one he ever saw," said Peter, "and that is my own to give."

"Right-O," said Lily-bud. "Now who is the next person to think about?" she asked.

Peter's eyes met hers very brightly, and he saw her wings close and unclose in her eagerness. After a moment more of thought he waved the wand once again. "I wish we were with Rose-Petal," he said.

In less time than it takes to tell it, he and Pat found themselves under a large, spreading tree a little away from a roadside, and there, with her tiny hands clinging to the moss, was a lovely fairy who looked over her shoulder at Pat with frightened eyes.

"All right, all right," sang Lily-bud, flitting around Peter's head on bright wings. The moment Rose-Petal heard her friend's voice she turned about. Peter saw that this new fairy's wings were drooping and that she looked pale and sad. He could hardly wait to give her what was her own, and he leaned down, holding out the bright bit of silver.

"Here is your wand, Rose-Petal," he said.

How gladly the little creature seized it, and Peter had the pleasure of seeing her cheeks flush and her eyes grow bright and her gauzy wings lift, while rosy color ran in waves all over her white gown, from which the dust fell away. She looked up at him with lovely, grateful eyes, and flew twice around his head before she alighted on his shoulder and spoke into his ear.

"And what can I do for you, Peter?" she asked in a voice that was like sweet music. "Your arms are bleeding."

"I don't deserve anything," replied Peter, not daring to move with that dainty being on his shoulder.

"I can't leave you without showing my gratitude," said Rose-Petal, and Lily-bud felt so happy and full of fun that she alighted on Pat's ear, but he thought a twig was tickling him, and he put up his paw so she whirred away laughing, and then flew back to Rose-Petal and took her hand.

"This is a very uncomfortable, wet coat you're standing on," she said.

"I think so too," replied Rose-Petal, "so first we'll forget all those scratches." She touched Peter with the wand and instantly his arms and legs were smooth—"and then," she continued, "we'll make him as nice outside as he is inside." She touched him again and all the shabby clothes were gone, and the boy found himself dressed in a fine, strong suit with shoes that fitted him perfectly.

"Good bye, Peter," she said, "and if I ever lose my wand again I hope you will be the one to find it."

There was a little, whirring sound, Peter's cheek was fanned by a zephyr, and the fairies were gone. He called them, for he wanted to thank Rose-Petal, but there was no reply.

When, later, he and Pat came walking home they created some excitement on the street and in his cottage.

"I said that boy would come to no good," said one old woman who saw him pass. "Let some one fetch the constable. He has stolen a new suit of clothes and should be clapped in jail."

His mother questioned him and he told her that a fairy gave him the clothes and that he had been in the sky on a cloud.

"Poor child, he has had a sunstroke," exclaimed his mother, and she put him to bed and nursed him for a couple of days, but when he arose the new clothes were still there, and he put them on and went back to school.

Little by little the girls and boys found they need not avoid him, and he carried out his plan to give Lawrence the precious knife, and this made Lawrence his friend for life.

Peter was so changed and quiet and thoughtful that many of the grown people who heard what he had told his mother said that he had lost his mind; but the school teacher, who had suffered much from his pranks, in the past, shook her head.

"No indeed," she said earnestly. "He has found it. Watch and see if Peter doesn't come to be the happiest boy in the village."

And sure enough he did.