Dedication
TO
JOYCE MOFFAT SCOTT
Dear little Joyce,—One of the reasons why this book is to be your very own is that the story it tells begins in Wonderland, and that is a land in which you and all other little people wander at will.
Grown up children, men and women as we call them, do not know the secrets of this strange land, yet there are a few who can always find their way across its border, as they used to do when they were small like you. Some few others there are who remember its secrets well.
Why, when the wind blows soft, faint whispers reach your ear, but you alone know what the whispers tell. When the brooks gurgle you hear joyous laughter, and in the springs of water you see the sparkle of elfin eyes.
Note
The ancient Wonderland of Hellas, of which this story tells, was unlike your Wonderland in this, that men and women dwelt in it as well as boys and girls, and they, too, saw and heard its secrets. And this was because, in a way not known to-day, each had kept the heart of a little child.
More even than these things the Hellenes saw. For across lone hillsides, through busy fields, in sacred groves and flower-sweet meadows, radiant figures sped. And the simple folk catching glimpses of these flitting forms said one to the other, ‘The gods have come to live among us. Their presence it is that makes the earth so fair, so wonderful.’ As the years passed and the Hellenes grew older, sterner times came. Cities sprang up on hillsides and by river-banks, and the gods were seldom seen. Men went to war, battles were lost and won.