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 The gardener was carrying a basket in one hand, and in the other a tool with dreadful prongs. He was going to pull up the grass that had grown among the stones! Poor Flitterwing's nice new home was going to be spoilt!

One by one the tufts were dragged up by the roots, while the sharp prongs clinked against the stones and the gardener's fingers crumpled up the blades of grass that had looked so green and fresh a few minutes before. Flitterwing was terribly frightened.

"The sooner I get out of this the better," he said to himself, skipping away from the gardener's big fingers. Then he spread his wings and flew up and away, over the wall and over the garden and on and on. He went on flying, flying, till all his friends were left far behind and he came to strange streets such as he had never seen before. Still he went on flying, flying. You see he was extremely anxious to be very far away from the gardener with the big fingers and the terrible, sharp prongs.

At last he became dreadfully tired. It would be impossible, he felt, to go on flying much longer, so he looked about him for shelter. He saw an open window, and beyond it a large cool room. Here was shelter at all events, so he flew straight in. There were a number of tables and chairs in the room, and at each table a man sat writing; but Flitterwing was too much frightened to see anything. He only wanted to find a place where he could hide and rest. A large ink-pot stood on a table, and just inside the ink-pot was a little ledge where a fairy might rest comfortably. Flitterwing lost no time; he darted into the 89