Lily.  But rubies can’t spot one’s frocks, as blackberries do?

L. No; but I’ll tell you what spots them—­the mulberries.  There are great forests of them, all up the hills, covered with silk-worms, some munching the leaves so loud that it is like mills at work; and some spinning.  But the berries are the blackest you ever saw; and, wherever they fall, they stain a deep red; and nothing ever washes it out again.  And it is their juice, soaking through the grass, which makes the river so red, because all its springs are in this wood.  And the boughs of the trees are twisted, as if in pain, like old olive branches; and their leaves are dark.  And it is in these forests that the serpents are; but nobody is afraid of them.  They have fine crimson crests, and they are wreathed about the wild branches, one in every tree, nearly; and they are singing serpents, for the serpents are, in this forest, what birds are in ours.

Florrie.  Oh, I don’t want to go there at all, now.

L. You would like it very much indeed, Florrie, if you were there.  The serpents would not bite you; the only fear would be of your turning into one!

Florrie.  Oh, dear, but that’s worse.

L. You wouldn’t think so if you really were turned into one, Florrie; you would be very proud of your crest.  And as long as you were yourself (not that you could get there if you remained quite the little Florrie you are now), you would like to hear the serpents sing.  They hiss a little through it, like the cicadas in Italy; but they keep good time, and sing delightful melodies; and most of them have seven heads, with throats which each take a note of the octave; so that they can sing chords—­it is very fine indeed.  And the fireflies fly round the edge of the forests all the night long; you wade in fireflies, they make the fields look like a lake trembling with reflection of stars; but you must take care not to touch them, for they are not like Italian fireflies, but burn, like real sparks.

Florrie.  I don’t like it at all; I’ll never go there.

L. I hope not, Florrie; or at least that you will get out again if you do.  And it is very difficult to get out, for beyond these serpent forests there are great cliffs of dead gold, which form a labyrinth, winding always higher and higher, till the gold is all split asunder by wedges of ice; and glaciers, welded, half of ice seven times frozen, and half of gold seven times frozen, hang down from them, and fall in thunder, cleaving into deadly splinters, like the Cretan arrowheads; and into a mixed dust of snow and gold, ponderous, yet which the mountain whirlwinds are able to lift and drive in wreaths and pillars, hiding the paths with a burial cloud, fatal at once with wintry chill, and weight of golden ashes.  So the wanderers in the labyrinth fall, one by one, and are buried there:—­yet, over the drifted graves, those who are spared climb to the last, through