When the days stay mild and the sun is out, some sprites dream of the gardens they are going to plant, but the dog likes to dream of the walks he is going to take. To him a walk is a sort of adventure or little voyage of discovery in which he finds out for himself what the world is like in a certain place. A walk satisfies in a measure the instinct to reach out into the unknown and it furnishes the mind with an interesting picture for reflection. I do not mean the kind of brisk walk that is taken by the humans for exercise, but the kind upon which one sets out with a carefree heart and open mind and a mild portion of curiosity.

A dog’s most vivid and pleasurable memories come not from standing on the sites of historic events or counting the miles he needs to travel to keep in shape but from exploring the streets and roads and paths to see who he will meet and what will happen. For instance, he will not remember the angry old man waving his stick but he will recall clearly the scents worth following, the collie he met and would like to know better, the wall that bordered a forest bumpy with vine-covered boulders, a friendly woman with the time to give him a friendly stroke, and the furze and broom yellow in the rocky pasture, the marvelous cool water at the bottom of a waterfall, a lie down under a rustic bench on the hilltop, the horse that snorted when he came near.

The heat was unrelenting.

From a thick gnarly branch of a shady oak, under a new moon, Elf watched his Fairy languorously dance with the fairies about the reedy cradle in the center of the magic ring. Diadem atilt, her face flushed and wings droopy, she carefully traced the circle steps that she might take every clammy hand that wound round to greet her.

Carabosse struck a pose on the ancient spot, a glacial boulder serving as her platform. A queer silence fell over the crowd, more than a few sprites remembered that infamous temper of hers and held their breaths as she lifted her wand over the new infant and introduced in a singsong voice, to the beat of the cicadas, her gift of a spell.

Of the Canyon and the Sea,
Of the Mountain ridges be,
Like the wildcat, coyote
Born beneath the stars, live free.

‘Now please let us go to the waterfall!” The pixies wailed.

Carabosse drew a thunder clap from the sky to silence the din. The sticky air seemed to hang molasses-thick; the gleam in Carabosse’s dark eyes so fierce, it felt to Fairy that the continent might move if she didn’t intervene.

“Please excuse their impatience,” She consoled her old friend. “They mean no disrespect to you. The babe is honored and blessed; now let us go break the ocean waves to celebrate.”

It looked to Elf as if a spell of black intent was about to be spoken, he knew Carabosse well enough to know that she was thinking of doing something, and feeling someone had to be prepared for the rage, he bravely leapt off the branch, puffed up, purposely flew low, swooped in and buzzed over all their solemn heads, singing his own jolly best wishes for the little one to live a long happy life. This raucous invasion broke loose the sacred binding magic of the fairy ring and the dancers wasted no time to use his marvelous distraction to flee. Hastily they glided off pulling the cradle along after them with the help of spider webs and some strong crèche ants.

Later, before they turned in for the night, Carabosse admitted over a drop of dandelion wine, to thoughts of changing those she deemed most unmannerly into stink bugs.

“I am quite grateful for your thoughtful intervention.” She told Elf tenderly. “I think my reputation has suffered quite enough.”

In the morning, the Magician found toadstools marking the sacred spot, and remembered when he too had once been part of their magic.

How a Fairy Breaks Her Promise

Elf says that he has to drive to Cambria today and if you'll promise not to stop at a single nursery you may come along. You have been hacking at the acacia and would much rather go to Cambria.

"Will we be anywhere near that restaurant on Moonstone Beach, the one that's supposed to have the best steamers on the shore? Could we have dinner there?"

"We can, and you shall have a Lemon Drop. You've been a good girl and haven't looked to right or left."

The restaurant is crowded but your Elf, in the Lordly way you like, asks for a table looking out over the water. While he is taking photographs of the sun setting over the ocean, you disappear. There is a Fairy nursery just down the road in town, you remember.

When you return he looks suspiciously at the large paper grocery box you are carrying.

"It's only a peppermint geranium and two columbines," you apologize, " and we didn't stop at it."

Reflection of a repentant fairy:

It's naughty to equivocate
and hide your motives from your mate.

It is torrid.

The only reason to get out of bed is to shower. Thank God for the luxury of a Sunday newspaper delivery!

At dusk Elf drags himself into the garden to water the baby perennials but that’s about all that can be done for them. Fairy intends to feed the roses but instead opens a bottle of cold ginger ale. About six thirty she starts to think about clothes for the morning. A final, long, cool bath helps before dinner.

When Fairy has drooped into her freshest organdie, Elf is in the kitchen cracking crabs for a summer salad served in bed in front of the fans…

Together they stir up some claret lemonade.

Elf strains several lemons into a pitcher, Fairy sugars to taste, fills it up with half claret and half cold soda water and stirs it well. When she serves it she loves to decorate it with lemon slices on top.

They would sit out on the deck but the neighbors are disagreeable.

When the Galileo thermometer says 90, put a leash on your tongue, for tempers are short and emotions only skin deep.

The moon in Topanga’s fairyland

Sleep is far away. The waxing moon has crept under the browning pine and glows directly onto the bed. Fairy steps into her slippers and goes down the stairs to find her Elf out under the jasmine in his pajamas peering intently into his telescope. “Beetles.” He grumbles, and then blows his nose loudly, but they both know nothing can be done. He will remove the poor tree tomorrow.

She will make a Vitamin C Fizz to soothe their colds. She takes a lemon and an orange from her garden and squeezes the juice. Elf adds the gin.

“Let’s go sit in the peach blossoms.” It is heaven there. A sweet heavy perfume rises with the breeze. Hiding behind the olive tree, the moon makes an eerie, unbelievably beautiful world of ebony and silver. The doves coo a lullaby.

“That’s the way it is,” whispers Elf, “a few moments of magic and long stretches of the same old thing.”

“Do you mind this same old thing?” Asks Fairy.

“No,” he answers, and she can hardly speak for the fluttering of her wings.

It will probably be a torrid day, but the good gardener is out before breakfast while the dew is wet.

With the kitchen scissors she cuts back the faded roses. They look like wilted debutantes who have been dancing too long at the ball.

From the heap of compost concealed behind the rockery covered in orange lotus, she gives each bush a spongy topper. This will have to do in lieu of parasols.

After breakfast she will spend the day soaking their beds.

It should be done at twilight, but by then, she is dressed in her prettiest summer frock. If there is one thing more ruinous to a lady’s hands than watering it is weeding. And she knows better, for in inspired exalted moments, she has done them both. The manicurist’s worst nightmares are her nails.

The pixies have gathered together for Blue Columbine Fairy’s farewell, and spend the day sipping Horse’s Necks in the shade. She leaves a little flimsy, her lacy frock slipping off her shoulders.

How to Make A Horse’s Neck.

Two lumps of broken ice in a tumbler and fill it with cold ginger ale, add the peel of a lemon with one end hanging jauntily over the top.

The Indifferent Mole.

There are in Elf and Fairy’s world two types of time. They are perpendicular to each other: real time and imaginary time. A mathematician would tell you that some roots are real and some are imaginary and when they appear together, that’s what makes them complex. Some of these interesting roots are real and equal, and they are called double roots. It is in similar roots that Fairy and Elf live.

The indifferent mole.

Last night Elf forgot to pull the curtains - so giddy was he, after the late and unusual spring monsoon. This was Mother Nature’s gift to all those who still weed by hand, and he, for one, was honored. In the early morning he opened the window to watch Venus rising and after, he went out on the deck to cherish the sun coming up the hill, gilding the eastern Santa Monica Mountains. Something moved in the vegetable garden. It was a mole, a little brown runt of a creature brazenly eating the rocket Fairy raised from seed.

“Go away,” he shouted, “Am-scray.” The mole, caring nothing for Pig Latin, gave an indifferent glance and took another bite.

Elf flew up in a fury and when his wings sodden damp with the dew wouldn’t lift, he found himself reduced to brandishing his arms about like a mere mortal man. Only then would the mole descend down into the dark earth beneath the violets.

At breakfast, Fairy asked him curiously what in the world he was shouting at in the early hours.

On the table was a bowl of wind-ravaged roses, oriental poppies and dill.

“Do you suppose moles are deaf? I know they are blind. He was rude and arrogant and just thinking of himself until I dashed at him.”

Fairy offered Elf a thick rasher of bacon.

“Why?” Asked Fairy meditatively, “didn’t you bless him with a moving spell?

In some corner of the heavenly garden we’ll spend eternity growing the flower combinations we forgot.