Dear children

Today our little elfin friend came right into the house and sat on my art table on an upturned box with the feather on his hat bobbing up and down as he spoke. Of course, being an elf, he didn’t sit all the time. Most of the time he was skipping around among my paints, leaving more than a few coloured footprints on my papers. Again he wanted to hear all about you, and because I’m always ready to talk about my wonderful grandchildren, we had a long chat. A very pleasant chat too, although, when I told him you could shout and pretty crossly sometimes, he nearly fell off his box. He then asked me to write this letter to you as elfin writing looks something like this,

and none of us could possibly read it.

“I’m watching your grandmother’s pen move along.

Elves use runes that flow like a song

But your grandmother says you can’t read that way

So I’ll have to use words in this letter today.

Annie says you are aged between one and seven,

That’s not very old if you are elfin.

She says you all have lovely smiles,

To elves that is precious and most worthwhile.

I’m told when you’re cross you can shout very loudly

And, although I’m as brave as a lion, that is scary,

For to elfin ears a cross shout’s like a bellow

And can turn an elf from leaf green to yellow

And that’s how we stay for the rest of the day,

Yellow and droopy and unwilling to play.

But I’m told when you’re happy your voices are low,

Like a kitten’s soft purring and waters that flow

And your laughter and singing’s a wonderful sound

That makes everyone happy for elf miles around.

I hope, for the sake of Australian sprites,

You sing more than you shout and laugh more than you fight.

Trees love to hear music, we sing to them here.

If you listen I’m sure you’ll hear elves singing there,

But I wanted to tell you a story so old

That old elves can’t remember when first it was told.

Some say it goes back to before the ice age

And was told to the elves by an old human sage.

For in those days men and elves saw each other quite clearly

And most elves liked people and some loved them dearly.

But back to my story of the age before ice,

Before horses and John’s cows and beavers and mice.

When great stags roamed through the ancient old forests

And the gentlest beasts known were the silver-backed sorrets:

They were little horses with tiny wings

And silver backs and golden rings

Which they wore on their tails to keep them neat

And small ebony hooves at the ends of their feet.

We elves loved the sorrets and rode them like you,

Who ride their descendants and love them too.

We flew and we galloped and played in the forests

And groomed the silver hair on the backs of our sorrets.

There was, at that time, a harp of great beauty;

With a sound when men played it of such rare purity

That the angels would leave their heavenly places

To listen with men and all fairy races.

There are ancient old elves from the green ferny glen

Who say they still have that harp from the old world of men

But, as elves are too light to make it play,

It’s been silent since that terrible day:

That terrible day that the wizard of Dirth

Came over to Ireland with a boatload of serfs.

He left his own land, wild, treeless and cold

And sailed over to Ireland, or so I’ve been told

And the first thing he did, that terrible Dirth,

Was to cut down our trees and plough up the earth,

Then the men of old Ireland started doing it too

And we elfin creatures could just not get through

To those men with their saws and axes so sharp

So we left and went south, carrying Ireland’s great harp.

The sorrets, they stayed, and grew big on the pastures

But they lost their wings when they gained their new masters.

For the wizard of Dirth simply hated to fly

And he punished his serfs if they wanted to try.

From that time to this elves still cannot get through

To men, or seldom, and then only a few

And some say, the sage said, that’s how it would stay

‘Till the great harp of Ireland is heard once more to play.”

“Lets go for a walk,” said Elfree then.

I looked out of the window at the rain.

“This is what we elves call a feathery day,

The flurries of rain and the trees so grey,

Making lacy patterns against the sky.”

So up into the hills went the elf and I.

Over the rocks and through the heather,

Walking in Elfree’s feathery weather.

And thinking of you in the Australian sun,

Although walks in the mist can also be fun.

Love,

Gran