If you found him, you could see what a sweet, splendid fellow Sir Galahad was, just by looking at him, let me tell you. If you gazed through his whiskers, there you would find lively elfin eyes that tilted up toward the edges, full rosy lips and the small ears that started off as points to remark upon. That is, if you could get him to speak to you. Just an observation, but that isn't as hard as you might think. Elves are very aware that if they charm a human so, most of the beings completely lose sight of their features, and so fail to realize how immensely important it is to pay attention to them. Within moments most humans become so engaged in what it is they want to tell the elf about themselves, they completely forget the passing thought that who they are actually talking to is a genuine Topanga wood elf. As opposed to the common garden elf that will never talk at all. “Humans alone are bad enough Attached to objects coarse and rough But how much greater their offence is When stuck on the usual self interests.” Sir Galahad and his fairy lived in a small wood house in a tree with their family, and there was no room for self-interest. They were not as unsociable as some of their kindred spirits, but they too had taken to keeping to themselves. They had learned this lesson the hard way. The fact was they had once been kind to an unhappy magician. One who had so many problems their magic had just failed to work no matter what they tried to do for him. And now he was menacing them for more of their favors so much that they were forced to avoid him at all costs. “Dear me,” said Sir Galahad,” What must we do, in order for him to forget all about our magic and leave us alone.” “I cannot make up my mind,” Said the fairy warming her toes by the fireplace. "I cannot make up my mind whether we should become World Travelers or stick by our gums.” This pun made the elf chuckle as they were living in modest gum tree and wouldn't have traded it for all the fine pines and majestic black oaks in the world। Wand in hand, hidden in the damp branches of the red sumac on the hill, angry and malevolent thoughts trembled through the magician's heart as he looked across at the twinkling lights high in the wind blown tree. The wind carried the music and voices to his place in the rain in disjointed tones. He couldn't make out who was speaking. He caught a phrase and lost it. And yet, for him, on this starless night, it was just enough, this watching, this waiting. He knew enough about ancient magic to respect the danger he would place himself in if he was discovered lurking so close. A twig from the pepper tree hanging overhead pushed down by the wind and the wet, caught up his leather hat and removed it from his head. An urgent bluster full of water took the hat from there and dropped it at his feet. The storm was returning. He had told his children that he was just going down to the market and that was an hour ago. It had just begun to pour as he scrambled from out of the poisonous brush, and climbed into his truck. The troll from his cave across the way saw him then, driving up the hill to his children, a horrible slumped hump, a cumulus nimbus, and black in countenance. By too much sweetness, she provoked...