The Lost Pibroch.
day is my story, for they have not the Lost
Pibroch. It is of the three best, who were
not bad, in a place I ken - Half Town that
stands in the wood.
You may rove for a thousand years on
league-long brogues, or hurry on fairy wings
from isle to isle and deep to deep, and find
no equal to that same Half Town. It is
not the splendour of it, nor the riches of its
folk; it is not any great routh of field or
sheep-fank, but the scented winds of it, and
the comfort of the pine - trees round and
about it on every hand. My mother used
to -be saying (when I had the notion of
fairy tales), that once on a time, when the
woods were young and thin, there was a
road through them, and the pick of children
of a country-side wandered among them into
this place to play at sheilings. Up grew the
trees, fast and tall, and shut the little folks
in so that the way out they could not get
if they had the mind for it. But never an
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