As to the
animals, there were none but the gentlest kind. Little white mice went
peeping about with their wee pink eyes, pretty tame squirrels bounded
from tree to tree, and a herd of graceful fawns fed and played in the
meadows. Birds of the gayest plumage and sweetest song were there;
pretty poll-parrots hopped among the trees, crying, "What's o'clock?
What's o'clock?" In short, it was the brightest, merriest, sunniest spot
in the world, and I can say no more in its praise than that. All day
long the sun shone gently down upon the little isle, and the wind never
raised its voice above a whisper.
But, besides birds and butterflies, fawns, and flowers, there was
something else in this pretty isle. Now, what do you guess that
something was? Why, a beautiful fairy palace.
I call it a fairy palace, not because fairies lived there, for they did
not, but because it was the work of fairy hands, and was more beautiful
than any other palace in the world. It stood in the midst of a lovely
garden, but no wall or railing shut it in from the rest of the island;
and you and I, had we been there, might have walked across the green
lawn, and plucked some of the gay flowers, and gone up the marble steps,
without anyone saying, "Stop! You must not go there.
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