The Faery Tales of Weir

A free download from http://www.dertz.in



The Faery Tales of Weir

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Faery Tales of Weir, by Anna
McClure Sholl Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure
to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or
redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how
the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since
1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of
Volunteers!*****
Title: The Faery Tales of Weir
Author: Anna McClure Sholl

Release Date: February, 2006 [EBook #9952] [This file was first
posted on November 4, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE
FAERY TALES OF WEIR ***

E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

The Faery Tales of Weir
By Anna McClure Sholl
1908

CONTENTS
THE FAERY TALES OF WEIR
THE TALE OF THE BLUE GLOVE
THE INVISIBLE WALL
THE TREE IN THE DARK WOOD
THE CAT THAT WINKED
THE MAGIC TEARS

THE GOLDEN ARCHER

[Illustration: THE TOWN OF WEIR]

THE FAERY TALES OF WEIR
Only in far-away towns are the real faery tales told in shadowy
nurseries whose windows in summer open upon shimmering gardens
and on whose walls in winter the fire-goblins dance. Weir is one of
these towns--a sweet, hushed place, lying where the hills spread
broadly to the south sun, and the trees are thick as in a painting.
There are shops, too, with bulging windows through which you can
scarcely see the toys or the flowers or the sweetmeats, because Time
has finger-marked the glass with violet and crimson stains that shift and
merge so that the contents of the windows are seen as through wavering
sea-water. Beyond the shops are the houses asleep beneath great trees,
their warm red bricks showing where the ivy has thinned. Their stacked
chimneys send out faint blue spirals of smoke, to let you know that the
fires are on the hearths and about the hearths the children are gathered.
The little old churches placed where Weir drowses out into the country,
have hoarse, sweet bells like the voices of old women who whisper of
the Christ Child at Christmas time; and in the churches are windows as
full of color as the gardens of Weir.
The sleepy, forgotten town was famous for nothing but its faery tales
told long ago to children whose bright eyes have looked by now on
wider scenes, and whose voices have died away on that wind upon
which all voices sink from hearing at last. I sometimes wonder whether
in imagination they all troop back at the twilight hour: Hubert to cuddle
up in the wing-chair; James to stretch out on the hearth-rug; Veronica
and little Eve to nurse their dolls and gaze through the nursery window
half fearfully at the striding dusk, or to listen to the tap upon the panes
of flying leaves when the great winds rise. Where is Richard who

always wanted "a tale never told before," and small Spencer with his
dreaming eyes and baby mouth? Where is quaint Matilda with her plaid
dress and her straight black hair; where is Ruth?
Wherever they are, I like to think that to them Weir is always their true
home; and their hearts really live in that broad shadowy house where
the steps of the staircase were so wide and shallow that each was a little
landing in itself; and where the candles flamed at night in high sconces;
and in the halls was a rustling of silk; and in the air the smell of flowers
and burning wood. The nursery was high up under the eaves, so that the
rest of the house seemed far-away--a wonderful region where music
might sound, or where, by stealing down, one might see fair ladies like
the princesses of the tales smiling at gallant gentlemen. One's own
mother might turn, indeed, into a princess just before it was time to go
to bed, with white arms and jewels upon her neck.
Then one fell asleep knowing that no day in Weir could be without its
enchantment, whether