After supper was finished and the house had settled into its quiet, when everyone had slipped away to their own corner and the lamps burned low, the Sleep Fairy would appear all at once—there, and yet not there. She came as lightly as a breath, stepping through rooms on feet so soft they never stirred a curtain. Then she would lift her slender wand and, like a graceful little dancer, whirl once, twice, three times, and with each turn pale clouds of sleep would drift out into the air, floating and settling like down.
We could not see her with our eyes—no one ever truly could—yet we always knew when she had come, for the room grew gentler, the shadows grew kinder, and eyelids suddenly became heavy as velvet.
She had a gift for children who sat quietly and behaved well: she leaned close and blew into their eyes the tiniest seeds of sweet dreams, so small you could not count them, and yet strong enough to bloom into whole gardens of stories. For storytelling there was none like her; she was the finest tale-spinner in the wide universe. When she spoke, even the stillest things in a room seemed to listen. But her most enchanted stories began only when the child had already fallen deep into sleep—because that was where she truly worked, in the secret country behind closed eyes.
She wore a long white gown, soft as silk and bright as moonlight on fresh snow. She looked delicate and beautiful—yet she remained invisible all the same.
And she carried two umbrellas.
One was decorated with bright, lively pictures: colors and scenes and little figures that danced when the fabric moved. The other was plain and colorless, as dull as a winter sky. To good, thoughtful children she opened the colorful umbrella, and then they dreamed the loveliest dreams all night long. But if a child lay in bed plotting mischief—thinking of how to tease, how to lie, how to be troublesome—then she opened the plain umbrella, and that child woke in the morning astonished to find the night had held no dream at all.
Now listen carefully, for we shall hear how the Sleep Fairy visited one little child every evening for a whole week.
The First Evening
The Sleep Fairy came when the child was tucked into bed and his breathing had begun to slow. She sat beside him, and in a voice like a whisper of feathers she said:
“Listen to me well.”
At that very instant something in the room began to change. The small potted flowers by the window stretched as if waking from a long nap. Their thin branches grew longer—longer—longer—until they reached over the edge of the pot. They crept across the carpet, climbed the wall, and spread along the ceiling. Leaves unfolded as wide as hands. Buds opened into blossoms. The blossoms became clusters. The clusters became crowns.
In a few heartbeats the child’s bedroom had turned into a pleasant little grove. The stems had thickened into trunks, the branches had become sturdy limbs, and the air filled with the sweet smell of flowers. Fruits shone among the leaves—so bright they looked like little pieces of gold—and here and there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, strawberry cakes sat balanced on the branches as though they had grown there.
The child smiled in his sleep; you could see it tug at the corners of his mouth.
Then—tap, tap—there came a faint little sound, hardly louder than a moth’s wings, from the desk.
The Sleep Fairy rose and glided over. She opened a drawer so quietly that not even the hinge dared to creak.
Inside lay the child’s small slate, his pencil, and his notebook—and what a commotion they were making! On the slate a number was wriggling as if it had grown legs. It squirmed and slid and tried again and again to settle, but could not find its place. A mistake in an earlier sum had pushed it where it did not belong, and now it was restless and unhappy.
The pencil trembled, as if it wished to put everything right, yet it seemed to have forgotten what it ought to do. From the notebook rose a chorus of complaining, offended little sighs, and when the Sleep Fairy looked closer she saw why: letters were scattered in a miserable disorder. Capital letters stood stiff and upright, proud and severe, while lowercase letters lay collapsed beside them, as though they had fallen ill.
One of the capital letters—tall, sharp-shouldered, and very commanding—barked in an authoritative voice:
“Stand up straight! Pull yourselves together!”
The little lowercase letters answered faintly, as if they had hardly the strength to speak:
“We would like to, but we are very sick.”
The Sleep Fairy frowned—not angrily, but with the stern kindness of someone who cannot bear to see a mess.
“You need a little discipline,” she said.
With her wand she nudged the wandering number back into its proper place. She steadied the trembling pencil until it remembered how to behave. And then, with swift gentle touches, she lined the letters up as they should be: the capitals in their proud positions, the lowercase letters beside them, each in order, each neat and well.
At once the complaints stopped. The drawer seemed to breathe with relief. Everything looked as it should.
But the Sleep Fairy glanced toward the sleeping child and sighed softly.
“There is no time for a story tonight,” she whispered. “I must go now. Still—do not worry. Tomorrow I shall return.”
And she vanished as suddenly as she had come.
The Second Evening
The next night, the child hardly had time to settle his head on the pillow before the Sleep Fairy entered again, silent as mist.
She lifted her wand and spun lightly through the room. This time the objects themselves began to talk.
At first the child heard only a humming, like a crowded market heard through a closed door. The chair complained, the table complained, the wardrobe complained, the toys complained—so many voices all at once that none could be understood. But their tone was unmistakable: they were grumbling, muttering, cross with something or other.
The Sleep Fairy flicked her wand—only one quick, decisive motion—and immediately the humming fell away into silence, as if someone had placed a soft hand over the room.
Then she moved to the wall where a landscape painting hung in a gilded frame. It showed tall noble trees, green meadows scattered with bright flowers, and at the edge of a forest a narrow stream that ran past castles before slipping into the sea.
The Sleep Fairy touched the painting with her wand. The gold frame shimmered. Then she took the child’s hand.
“Come,” she said, and together they stepped into the picture as easily as one steps through a doorway.
The painted world came alive.
Birds began to sing, not as painted birds but as living ones, their throats full of music. Leaves rustled in a real breeze. Clouds glided slowly across a true blue sky, and the little stream splashed and murmured as it ran, silver and lively.
The child found himself barefoot on soft grass, and he ran—ran so happily that his laughter seemed to shake the flowers. Warm sunshine slipped through the trees and danced on his skin. He ran toward the sea, faster and faster, and then—quite suddenly—he felt his feet leave the ground.
He was flying.
It did not frighten him. It felt as natural as skipping.
In a moment he drifted down into a small red boat. Its sail was a pale silver that gleamed like a polished coin, and the wind rocked it with patient tenderness.
At the front of the boat stood swans—tall, elegant, and proud. Around their necks hung blue stars that shone as if they had been cut from the night sky, and upon their heads they wore golden crowns. They pulled the boat along as smoothly as if the water itself had become silk.
They carried him toward a green forest whose trees leaned close and whispered stories into his ear. The flowers sang songs about fairies. Butterflies danced in bright, fluttering circles. Behind the boat swam splendid fish, their scales flashing with gold and silver. Above, flocks of birds flew alongside the swans, keeping pace as though escorting a little prince.
The child’s heart felt so full that he thought it might burst with joy.
Sometimes the forest grew thick and lonely; the light dimmed and the branches knit together overhead. Then it would open again into sunlit gardens full of flowers, as if the land could not decide whether to be secretive or welcoming. The boat slipped past castles made of glass and marble, their walls shining like ice and pearl.
From the balconies princesses leaned out, smiling as though they already knew the child.
“Catch!” they cried, and they tossed down heart-shaped candies.
The child snatched one in midair and laughed, for it broke neatly into two pieces in his hands. He gave the smaller piece back to the princess, and kept the larger for himself, as if that were the fairest arrangement in the world.
At the gates of the castles stood princes on guard, holding golden swords. They saluted as the boat passed and tossed grapes and little tin soldiers into the air like gifts at a parade.
Now the boat rose up upon a cloud, now it drifted through a city, now it skimmed so close to rooftops that chimneys seemed to bow beneath it. And by luck—by the sweetest luck—it came to the city where the child’s dear old nanny lived.
There she was, on a street he knew by heart, though everything looked brighter and cleaner than in daylight. She smiled, waved, and began to sing one of her old songs. And as she sang, the world around her joined in: birds answered her melody, flowers swayed as if keeping rhythm, and the oldest trees moved their branches like gentle hands.
Her song went like this:
I have missed you for a long, long time,
And in my dreams I see you every night;
I place kisses on you while you sleep—
On your eyes, your arms, your lips so bright.
Your first words once fell from your mouth,
And one day saying farewell felt hard;
Go—may God protect you, lovely child,
My little angel, loved beyond regard.
The child listened as if he could have listened forever. But dreams, even the sweetest, are always moving.
And before he could ask for the song again, the Sleep Fairy’s hand was warm around his, and the painted world began to soften at the edges like watercolors touched by rain.
The Third Evening
On the third night the rain came down as if the sky were pouring out bucket after bucket. Even in his sleep the child heard it drumming against the window.
The Sleep Fairy took him by the hand and led him to the sill. The rainwater had risen so high it lapped against the frame. And just then, astonishingly, a ship glided up to the window as though the street outside had become a canal.
Without hesitation the Sleep Fairy and the child climbed aboard.
The ship sailed through water-filled streets and flooded avenues, past buildings the child had walked by in daylight. It gathered passengers here and there, then drifted into a broad square that now looked like a small inland sea. After that it sailed on until the city thinned away behind them, and soon they were moving across a great lake, smooth and grey beneath the storm clouds.
The child stood on deck and looked back at his city until it vanished from sight.
Then—high overhead—a flock of storks appeared, flying toward warmer lands. They moved in an orderly line. But one stork at the very back looked terribly tired. It began to fall behind, its wingbeats weaker each time. It tried and tried, but it drooped lower and lower until it flew near the ship’s rigging.
At last its feet struck a rope. It slipped along the sailcloth and tumbled down onto the deck.
One of the sailors picked it up gently and carried it into the ship’s coop, where chickens, ducks, and a turkey were kept.
The moment the stork was set down, the coop erupted in judgment.
A chicken clucked loudly and complained, “Look at that one! How strange it looks!”
The turkey puffed itself up, swollen with importance, and demanded to know who the newcomer thought he was.
The ducks, pretending to be dignified, took a few steps back, as if the stork’s long legs were something indecent.
The stork, patient and polite, began to speak of Africa—of warm earth and tall pyramids, of deserts that stretched like endless sand seas, and of ostriches that ran across the dunes as if galloping like wild horses.
But the ducks did not understand a word of it. And because they were too proud to admit ignorance, they pretended the stork was foolish.
“Oh,” they said with mocking voices, “what a silly stork. We all think so, don’t we?”
The turkey lifted its beak and boomed, “A perfect example of stupidity! Gobble, gobble!”
The stork fell silent and stared into the distance, thinking of Africa.
But the turkey was not finished.
“My,” it sneered, “what elegant legs you have! Where did you find them, I wonder?”
The ducks burst into laughter.
“Quack, quack!”
The stork did not respond. It held its silence the way a wise person holds a shield.
The turkey strutted closer and said, cruelly pleased with itself, “Why aren’t you laughing with us? Perhaps you cannot—perhaps your mind isn’t clever enough, poor simple creature! Never mind. We will leave you. We have our own fun.”
At that moment the child came to the coop, opened the door, and lifted the stork out.
Once on deck, the stork spread its great wings and gave one strong, grateful flap, as if to say thank you in its own language. Then it beat the air powerfully and flew away toward warm lands.
Behind it the chickens clucked and flapped in agitation, the ducks quacked angrily, and the turkey’s wattle turned red with rage.
The child only smiled.
“Tomorrow,” he said cheerfully, “we’ll make a fine soup out of you!”
And with that joke he woke up in his own bed, blinking at the darkness, half laughing and half astonished by what his dream had shown him.
The Fourth Evening
On the fourth night the child heard a thin little voice.
He opened his eyes and looked around. The room seemed empty. Yet the voice came again.
At the top of the stairs stood a small mouse.
“Was that you speaking, little mouse?” the child asked in wonder.
The mouse nodded politely.
“Yes,” it said, “and I have come to invite you to a very special wedding. Tonight at midnight two mice are to be married. They have a lovely home beneath the kitchen window, under the step, and the celebration will be held there.”
The child sat up, astonished.
“That is splendid news! But how could I ever fit through such a tiny hole?”
“Do not worry,” said the mouse. “I will find a way.”
As soon as it finished speaking, the child began to shrink.
He shrank so quickly and so smoothly that it felt like slipping out of a coat. In a moment he was no taller than the mouse itself. But as he shrank, his pajamas became enormous, swallowing him in folds of cloth. He struggled to wriggle free, for he certainly did not want to arrive at a wedding naked.
So he borrowed the uniform of one of his tin soldiers—an elegant little outfit with buttons and a proud collar. Once he had put it on, it suited him wonderfully, and he looked very fine indeed.
The mouse placed him into his mother’s thimble as if it were a carriage, and pulled it along to the wedding.
On the way, as they passed under the kitchen step, the mouse asked, “Do you like the smell?”
The child sniffed. The air was rich and buttery.
“They polished the whole path with grease,” said the mouse proudly. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”
The child did not answer, for he was already dizzy with curiosity. Soon they reached the hall.
To the right sat lady mice in their best clothes, whiskers neatly combed. To the left sat gentleman mice, stroking their moustaches with their tails as though they were very grand. In the center stood the bridal pair, looking at each other tenderly from inside a hollowed-out rind of cheese, as if it were the most splendid carriage in the world.
Guests poured in and in, and the crowd grew so thick that the celebration nearly turned into a crush. When the engaged pair moved toward the doorway, it became difficult for anyone to enter or leave at all. The smell of grease filled every corner and seemed to fizz in the air like lemonade and soda at a festival.
As refreshments, peas were served—each pea carved with the initial letters of the bride and groom, as if the tiniest food could not resist becoming decoration.
The child joined the dancing mice and laughed with delight. He said he had never seen such a beautiful wedding in all his life.
When the celebration ended, he climbed back into the thimble. The mouse pulled him home, and in no time he was back in his room.
Once there, the child wanted to admire his soldier’s uniform in the mirror. But the mirror hung too high for someone his size. He hopped, he jumped, he stretched—yet he still could not see himself. Then he realized he was bouncing right on top of his bed, and the sight struck him as so funny that he burst into laughter.
His mother heard him and opened the door a little, smiling.
“What is going on in there, you little rascal?” she asked.
The child only laughed harder.
The Fifth Evening
On the fifth night the Sleep Fairy came to the child who was already sleeping soundly. She leaned close to his ear and whispered:
“So many people call for me. When sleep escapes them, they sit up in bed and wish I would chase their thoughts away. But tonight I will take you to a beautiful wedding.”
Her skirts fluttered like white petals as she led the child to the table, where a cardboard house stood. Inside it glowed warmly, as if lit by tiny lamps. At the door tin soldiers stood guard, straight and serious.
The wedding belonged to the doll of the child’s older sister.
Little toy bride and groom accepted gifts as guests arrived, but refused all food.
“For us,” they seemed to say, “love is enough.”
At one point one of the pair asked the other, thoughtfully:
“Shall we move into a summer house, or shall we travel?”
They could not decide, so they consulted two creatures: the swallow, who was always flying about and seeing new lands, and the hen, who stayed home and brooded in her nest.
The swallow spoke with bright excitement.
“In distant places there are sweet fruits, and high mountains that rise to the sky, and a blue sky so wide it makes your heart feel larger. The air is cool and clear and delicious to breathe.”
The hen considered this and replied in her practical way:
“That sounds nice—yes, very nice—but you will not find red cabbage there like we have here! I spent the whole summer with my chicks out in the country. We scratched in the sand pit, and we wandered into the red cabbage garden and ate until we were satisfied. I cannot imagine a better place than that.”
The toy bride and groom listened and fell into deep thought, as serious as grown people planning their future.
The child watched, enchanted.
The swallow, dissatisfied with the air of this place, began to complain.
“Here every day is the same,” it said. “And the weather is dreadful.”
The hen answered calmly, “One grows used to it.”
The swallow insisted, “It becomes terribly cold, and everything freezes over.”
“Cabbage is good for that,” said the hen as if it were the simplest solution in the world.
Then the hen grew more heated, defending its homeland.
“Did we not, four years ago, have a summer that lasted five whole weeks? We were so hot we could hardly bear it! And besides, we have no poisonous animals here like those foreign places. If anyone does not find our land good enough, then they do not deserve to live here!”
And the hen added, with a touch of emotion, “I have traveled too—but I never enjoyed it.”
The doll—who had been listening very seriously—declared that the hen was right.
“Yes,” said the doll, “the hen is quite right. I do not want to travel. The best plan is to move out to the sand pit in the country. We can wander among the cabbage beds.”
And at last they made their decision—and did exactly as they had said.
The Sixth Evening
On the sixth evening the Sleep Fairy arrived and sighed as though her work had piled up into a mountain.
“Tonight I have no time for a story,” she told the child. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and there are so many things I must do. I must visit the fields and see whether the wind has dusted the meadows and the leaves properly. Then I must gather the stars to polish them and tuck them into my apron—but first I must number them, so I do not mix them up. Ah, how much I have to do!”
At that moment, the portrait of the child’s grandfather, hanging over the bed, stirred.
The old man pushed his head out of the frame and said sternly:
“I am grateful that you tell my grandson such lovely tales—but do not tell him lies. How could you possibly take down the stars and polish them?”
The Sleep Fairy turned toward him without offense, as though she had expected the question.
“My dear Grandfather,” she said, “you are the elder of this family, but I am older than you by far. The Greeks and the Romans called me the god of dreams. I have gone into every house and out again—then and now. I know how to deal well with everyone, whether young or old.”
With that she lifted her umbrella and disappeared.
The grandfather leaned farther out of the frame and muttered angrily after her:
“Look at that! Is it a crime now to tell the truth?”
The Seventh Evening
On the seventh evening the Sleep Fairy bent close to the child’s ear and whispered:
“Tonight I will introduce you to my brother. His name is also the Sleep Fairy—but he visits a person only once in their lifetime. When he comes, he lifts the person onto his horse and tells stories. He knows only two tales: one is so marvelous it is beyond imagining; the other is so dreadful it is almost unbelievable.”
The child’s curiosity burned bright. He felt that tonight he would step into a world unlike any he had seen.
The Sleep Fairy took him by the hand and led him to the window.
“There,” she said softly. “My brother is coming. Do you see him?”
The child looked out, and indeed he saw a rider approaching—yet not the ugly skeleton figure from the picture-books where they draw such things to frighten children. No, this rider wore a handsome cavalry uniform embroidered with glittering silver, and behind him a black velvet cloak streamed in the wind. He sat proudly on his horse, splendid and solemn.
“Look at his entrance,” whispered the Sleep Fairy.
And then the child saw something stranger still: many people were riding with him. Some were young, some old. Each time the rider came, he lifted someone up, set them on the horse, and began the journey. And every single time he began in the same way, asking:
“Let us see your report cards! How are your marks?”
And the people answered quickly, hoping for the best:
“Excellent!”
Those who truly had excellent marks were seated in front, close to the rider, and to them he told the wonderful story—the story so beautiful that it could make the heart shine. But those whose marks were only middling or poor had to sit behind, and they were forced to listen to the dreadful tale, the one that filled them with terror. They became so frightened that they begged to be let down. Some wept as they climbed off the horse, trembling.
The child watched all this and found, to his surprise, that he liked the rider. He did not fear him.
“I like your brother very much,” he said to the Sleep Fairy. “There is nothing about him that makes me afraid.”
The Sleep Fairy smiled, and her voice was gentle but firm.
“That is good,” she said, “but make an effort, so that your report card always holds good marks.”
The grandfather’s portrait, still half-alive in its frame, murmured thoughtfully:
“A very instructive thing indeed. So there are times when speaking plainly is useful.”
And thus the Sleep Fairy’s seven evenings came to an end.
Who knows? Perhaps tonight she will come and visit you, too—children—when the house grows quiet after supper, and everyone slips away into their corners, and the lamps burn low.
Enjoy another bedtime story: The Three Little Piglet Friends