From The Topeka State Journal, October 24, 1912.
By Madison Cawein.
 

 The vat-like cups of the fungus, filled
   With the rain that fell last night,
 Are tuns of wine that the elves distilled
   For revels that the moon did light.
 The owlet there with her “Who-oh-who,”
   And the frog with his “All is right,”
 Could tell a tale if they wanted to
   Of what took place last night.
 
 In that hollow beech, where the wood decays,
   Their toadstool houses stand,
 A little village of drabs and grays,
   Cone-roofed, of fairy-land.
 That moth, which gleams like a lichen there,
   Is one of an elfin band
 That whisks away if you merely dare
   To try to understand.
 
 The snail, which slides on that mushroom’s top,
   And the slug on its sleepy trail,
 Wax fat on the things the elves let drop
   At feast in the moonlight pale.
 The whippoorwill, which grieves and grieves,
   If it would, could tell a tale
 Of what took place here under the leaves
   Last night on the Dreamland Trail.
 
 The trillium there and the May-apple,
   With their white eyes opened wide,
 Of many a secret sight could tell
   If speech were not denied:
 Of many a pixy revelry
   And rout on which they’ve spied,
 With the hollow tree, which there, you see,
   Opens its eye-knots wide.