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Sorrow in the forest, deep and silent sorrow. The lights of the hundred fireflies went out. No flashing torch glimmered before a weary fairy, flying home to her thistle-down bed. No twinkling light glowed over elfin paths. No starry flicker cheered Brown Beetle as he cleared away the leaves from the wee lanes. Butterfly sighs and wind sobs swept the hidden world under the tall trees. Not a firefly flew with light.

In the neat cottage under the bracken, the leader of the fireflies lay ill. He tossed and moaned and talked in a fever, and could not tell his mother from Dr. Maybug. The night before, poor Flicker Firefly had stayed out too long, helping the Dwarf find marigold root for his little daughter. The dews were heavy and the night dank, and Flicker was chilled to the heart. Now all the blankets of milkweed floss in the clearing could not take away that chill. There he lay in his little bed, all a-shake and a-shiver, and nothing Dr. Maybug did was the least bit of help. Across the unseen roadways, under ferns and over heather, came the wee friends with their gifts and cures for the sick Flicker.