THE PLUME
“Here is a gift,” the Brownie said,
As something fell on the little maid’s head—
“A golden feather with silver bars
Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars;
A beautiful plume to use as you will,
Fortunate friend on top of the hill!
Fasten it into your curly hair;
Love will follow and find you fair.
Put it into the Magi’s hands;
They will pay you with gold and lands.
Feather a shaft with the magic thing,
And bring down Fame with a crippled wing.
Other wonders the plume can do,
But I wouldn’t bother, if I were you!”
Now the queer little maid on top of the hill
Clipped the plume to a scratchy quill—
The golden feather with silver bars
Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars!
She wrote and wrote, all night, all day,
The curious things it made her say—
Wonder-tales and whimsical rhymes,
Faraway deeds from faraway times,
Told for the clamorous boys and girls,
With bangs and braids, with clips and curls.
The children laughed and clapped and cried—
“Tell it again! Tell more beside!”
Then the queer little maid was proud and glad,
And this was the good of the gift she had—
The magical plume of the Faraway Bird.
But the Brownie sighed, for never a word
To the busy house on the hilltop came
Of flattering love, or wealth, or fame.