I’ve found at last the hiding place
Where the fairy people dwell,
And to win the secrets of their race
I hold the long-sought spell.
Havergal.

One hundred years ago, in the great land of Canada, there lived a boy whose name was Robin. His home was in the grand old woods, with wapitis, wolves and bears. It was near the edge of a deep ravine that opened out on the east by a slow winding river flowing into one of the great blue lakes. And the name of his home, though built of wood, was Castle Frank.

The castle was well-furnished, for Robin’s father was a great man. The best rooms had comfortable carpets and carved oak furniture, while on the walls were interesting pictures, representing people of high rank, and battles on sea and land. In one room there was a fine arrangement of muskets, pistols and swords, together with Indian spears and bows and arrows. In another room there was a library, containing books of religion and science, histories and tales of adventure, and story-books for children. With the weapons and stories the boy beguiled away many a pleasant hour.

But there was something more pleasant than guns and spears and stories. Outside the castle, in little houses built of wood, with doors and windows of netted wire, were a number of pets, as foxes, rabbits and squirrels. To these Robin was greatly devoted, he fed them regularly with his own hand, and kept their dwellings sweet and clean. In a grassy enclosure where their little côtés stood, he let them have liberty every day, watching over them carefully, that no harm should come from savage beasts or birds of prey. He had also other pets a white pony, big dogs and little ones, and beautiful birds which he loved much and tended faithfully. So that among all these companions Robin passed much of his time very happily, even more so than when accompanying friendly Indians shooting game in the wild woods miles away, or fishing from a canoe in Lake Ontario.

A boy that is truly kind to animals will love men and, of course, boys. This quality and what was brave and honest shone plainly in his clear, blue eyes, as they shine in all kinds of eyes that have them. Unspoiled by city dainties, and clad in the grey shooting suit which he usually wore, he looked strong, active and healthy. Yet Robin had at times a dreamy, meditative look. Away from the stir and hum and engagement of city life, he dwelt in a kind of fairy-land, where flowers and trees and solitary paths called forth quiet questionings and aroused reflection, gilded by mystery and imagination. The tales of Indian life, and the stories of mighty giants and magic-working fairies, told and read in the quaint castle in the evenings, cultivated the growth of his imaginative mind. So that, mingled with his natural brightness and activity, there were moods that occasionally carried him under the shade of some elm or maple tree, to sit and see pictures of wonderful creatures in the beauty and melancholy of nature all around. For this reason his loving mother called him Inabandang, a dreamer of dreams.