The Raindrop Elves

WAY up above the clouds and sky, Too far to see with mortal eye, There lives another Fairy Band Well known to all, on sea or land. We’ll call this tribe the Raindrop Elves (For that is what they call themselves), But, doing work unlike the rest, Of course they’re differently dressed. For, washing trees and scrubbing grass, Or making pebbles shine like glass, While pails and brushes lie around With wet rags scattered over the ground, Calls for a special style of suits,— For overalls and rubber boots. So, dressed like this they wait until The Wind-God whistles long and shrill; Which means that at their city gate A half a dozen clouds await To take them to the world below As soon as they’re prepared to go. Each Elf his big has packed, Which on the cloud is piled and stacked; Then, climbing high upon the pile, All hands float downward mile by mile. As, steadily, swiftly down they go, The clouds, which once were white as snow, Get blackened from the many feet; And, when a counter wind they meet, The shifting, tumbling piles of bags Soon tear the clouds in shreds and rags; For rain-clouds are not often white, And do not fly at any height. When near the Earth these clouds arrive, Half of the drops with spring and dive Jump off; and dropping down through space They start out on a lively race. Each hurrying down for all he’s worth, To be the first to reach the Earth. Some land in trees, roll up their sleeves, Wash off the bark, repaint the leaves, And brighten up the fruit or buds By a generous dose of magic suds. Then others light upon the ground And straightway clean whate’er is found. Some wash the flowers in a tub. Some choose the roofs to clean and scrub; And when they’ve lots of roofs to do They bring their children with them too, Who clean the house-top gutters out, And always tumble down the spout.

But, on the clouds that brought this rain, A host of Raindrops still remain. They stay there with their goods until The cloud lands on a lofty hill; Then stepping calmly off, they start To carry out their special part. They hunt up with their clever eyes The springs where s and brooklets rise, And keep them clear and well filled up With water from their magic cup. They follow these little rills and brooks Through open fields and shady nooks; Then down the rivers wend their way, To harbor, gulf, or open bay, Until at last, bright, gay, and free, They reach the mighty boundless sea. The Drops who’ve worked on roofs and trees. Before long join themselves with these, And send word that their work is done To the King of the Fairy World, the Sun, Who sends his chariots from the skies; And up in the air these Raindrops rise To a cloud as white as the ocean’s foam, Which, pushed by the Wind-God, takes them home.