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Blackwood, Algernon, 1869-1951

"A Prisoner in Fairyland"


'Which is right, "further" or "farther"?' she asked with a flash of
light.
'Further, of course,' said unsuspecting Mother.
'But "further" sounds "farther," she cried, with a burst of laughter
that died away with her passage of meteoric brilliance--into the body
of the woods beyond.
'But the other Sprites, you see, are real and active,' continued
Daddy, ignoring the interruption as though accustomed to it, because
he thought out clearly every detail. 'They're alive enough to haunt a
house or garden till sensitive people become aware of them and declare
they've seen a ghost.'
'And _we_?' she asked. 'Who thought us out so wonderfully?'
'That's more than I can tell,' he answered after a little pause. 'God
knows that, for He thought out the entire universe to which we belong.
I only know that we're real, and all part of the same huge, single
thing.' He shone with increased brightness as he said it. 'There's no
question about _our_ personalities and duties and the rest. Don't you
feel it too?'
He looked at her as he spoke. Her outline had grown more definite. As
she began to understand, and her bewilderment lessened, he noted that
her flashing lines burned more steadily, falling into a more regular,
harmonious pattern. They combined, moreover, with his own, and with
the starlight too, in some exquisite fashion he could not describe.


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