THERE was once a Fairy who lived in a big library. It was rather a dull place to live in, but the Fairy liked quiet. One day the room suddenly grew noisy, and the Fairy peeped out from behind the poetry-book where she lived, and saw two children playing. They were building a house with the big books, a solid calf-skin house, with a vellum roof.

“This would be a nice house for me,” said the Fairy, “rather large perhaps, but I like plenty of room. That poetry-book was too thin!” So she crept under the roof, which was made of a volume of Rollin’s Ancient History. Her new house was rather musty, but it was large and comfortable. She was just settling down when a prim little girl leading a fat dog came into the room and scolded her little brother and sister, shut up the Ancient History, put it up back on the shelf, and the Fairy was shut in it. She had to make herself very small, I can tell you, so as to be comfortable between the pages. But she did it, and then went to sleep. “I shall wake when they open the book again,” she said, and so she did. But the book was not opened again for years and years and years. And at last it was opened by a learned Professor, and he read in it through his spectacles, but he didn’t see the Fairy.

“Why,” she said, “you’re the little boy who once built a house with the books.”

“Am I?” said the Professor, with a sigh.

“Why don’t you remember?” said the Fairy, and she flew on to his shoulder and began whispering in his ear. But he thought it was his own thoughts. And he remembered old times, and how he had played and enjoyed himself when he was a child; but now he had grown learned, and had been to Oxford, and had been made a Professor, he had forgotten how to play. “Heigho!” he said, “learning isn’t everything. I wish I were young again.”

“I can do that for you,” said the Fairy. “How old are you?”

“I’m not thirty yet,” he said.

“Then I’ll make him young,” she said to herself, “in return for his letting me out of that dreadful book. Look out of the window,” she said to him. And again it seemed to him that it was his own thoughts he heard. And through the window he saw the little girl he used to play with, only now she was grown a fair lady, and suddenly he grew young again, and went out to her. And she met him with a smile, and they went out into the fields and picked buttercups and daisies, and came back and had strawberries and cream for tea.

“It’s good to be young again, my love,” said the Professor.

And the Fairy kept him young to the end of his days.

E. Nesbit.