There's a rustle in the woodlands,
and a sighing in the breeze,
For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes
and the trees;
They are packing up their treasures, every
one with nimble hand,
Ready for the coming journey back to
sunny Fairyland.

They have gathered up the jewels from
their beds of mossy green,
With all the dewy diamonds that summer
morns have seen;
The silver from the lichen and the
powdered gold dust, too,
Where the buttercups have flourished and
the dandelions grew.

They packed away the birdies' songs,
then, lest we should be sad,
They left the Robin's carol out, to make
the winter glad;
They packed the fragrance of the flowers,
then, lest we should forget,
Out of the pearly scented box they
dropped a Violet.

Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent
woods they came,
Where the golden bracken lingered and
the maples were aflame.
On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er
their wings the moonbeams shone,
Music filtered through the forest—and the
Little Folk were gone!