Shall I sing you a song, not short and not long,
Of a story-book fairy who hides all among
The covers and leaves of your pictures and prints,
And colors them all with such beautiful tints?
First he kisses the girls with the fairest of curls
Then they blush like red roses and each head whirls.
In each little eye drops a bit of blue sky,
And colors each frock with a wonderful dye.
His breathing I ween is the wonderful sheen,
That clothes trees and meadows with loveliest green,
The buttercups bold, it need hardly be told,
Are gilded by him with the finest of gold.
It is he I suppose who paints the red rose,
And the rest of the flowers which every one knows,
And the same red will do (or a similar hue),
For Robin and little Red Riding Hood too.
He's awake it is said when you are abed,
For the picture-book doggies and cats must be fed,
To the picture-book children some stories he'll tell,
And sometimes he'll read them their verses as well.
The moment you open your picture book he
Is away out of sight as quick as can be,
For fairy law says that a fairy must die
The instant he's seen by one human eye.