An Old Gardener's Chantey.

Scab is the fungus that’s blighting that leaf.
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!
Leaf curl and fruit rot what cause so much grief,
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!

Rust’s on our roses, the hollyhock’s dying.
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!
All goes to rot when the gardener’s flying.
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!

There were few things Elf liked to do more than fly. He had been yearning for this moment all winter. What bliss to scoot through the sky, gliding with wings spread wide open, wind whipping wildly all around. Elf loved the feeling of soaring up in a silky convergence although the wild ride of coring a thermal thrilled him too. What a blast to be spun up through the clouds as if riding on the back of a bronco. There were peaceful winds that sailed you along and angry winds that were as hard to ride as Brahmas. If he was fortunate enough after to find a friendly wind to help him along, just when he had begun to fatigue, then he felt blessed indeed.

Elf flew through the mist, over woods, green hills and small canyon waterfalls. In the late afternoon the Anabatic winds came off the ocean up the hills making his flight a dream. He sailed then with some playful condors until the sun slipped below the horizon leaving in its stead a bright magenta madness. He hovered for a moment in reverence to watch Mother Earth’s gentle breathing below and then a cloud caught him, sucking him up fast into her moist air.

Merry shouts of warning came from his flying clansmen from fields of yellow mustard below. Beware! The light is going! Elves must end their flights before night fall or they risk being mistaken for fire flies by little boys who capture them in jam jars and use them for flash lights. Fairy said this was an urban myth but Elf was not one for taking chances.