THE
MAKER OF RAINBOWS
AND OTHER FAIRY-TALES AND FABLES

BY
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

AUTHOR OF
"AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE"

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ELIZABETH SHIPPEN GREEN

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXII

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY HARPER & BROTHERS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1912

I · M

CONTENTS

• chap.  page
• 1. The Old Coat of Dreams  1
  2. The Maker of Rainbows  7
  3. The Man with Something in His Eye  14
  4. Mother-of-Pearl  17
  5. The Mer-Mother  27
  6. The Sleepless Lord  29
  7. The Man with No Money  39
  8. The Rags of Queen Cophetua  42
  9. The Wife from Fairy-Land  51
  10. The Buyer of Sorrows  54
  11. The Princess's Mirror  60
  12. The Pine Lady  73
  13. The King on His Way to be Crowned  75
  14. The Stolen Dream  88
  15. The Stern Education of Clowns  103

ILLUSTRATIONS

• OFTEN SHE WOULD LIFT THE LID OF THE GOLDEN COFFER AND LOOK AT THE TATTERED ROBE  Frontispiece
• A SUDDEN STRANGE NEW LIGHT WOULD SHINE OUT OF ITS PAGES  Facing p. 30
• HE WENT FORTH INTO THE DAWN SLEEPLESS  Facing p. 36
• THE HERALD ONCE MORE SET THE TRUMPET TO HIS LIPS AND BLEW  Facing p. 56
• HER ONLY CARE WAS TO GAZE ALL DAY AT HER OWN FACE  Facing p. 60

THE MAKER OF
RAINBOWS

THE OLD COAT OF DREAMS

A PROLOGUE

eople in London—not merely literary folk, but even those "higher social circles" to which a certain publisher, whose name—or race—it is hardly fair to mention, had so obsequiously climbed—often wondered whence had come the wealth that enabled him to maintain such an establishment, give such elaborate "parties," have so many automobiles, and generally make all that display which is so convincing to the modern mind.

Of course they were not seriously concerned, because, so long as it is a party, and the chef is paid so much, and the wines are as old as they should be, not even the rarest blossom on the most ancient and distinguished genealogical tree cares whose party it is, or, indeed, with whom she dances. There is only one democracy, and that is controlled by gentlemen with names that hardly sound beautiful enough to mention in fairy tales—that democracy of money to which the fairest flower of our aristocracy now bows her coroneted head.

Strange—but we all know that so it is. Therefore, all sorts of distinguished and beautiful people came to the publisher's "parties."

It would have made no difference, really, to their hard hearts, could they have known where all the champagne and conservatories and music came from—they would have gone on dancing all the same, and eating pâté de foie gras and sherbets; yet it may interest a sad heart here and there to know how it was that that publisher—whose name I forget, but whose nose I can never forget—was able to pay for all that music and dancing, strange flowers,