It was Sunday again, and although the day looked rather less than inviting, Algy was determined not to miss the opportunity to tuck himself into some reasonably comfortable spot, so that he could relax with a volume of verse.
Collecting his tartan shawl, for it felt decidedly chilly in the grey March air, Algy asked his assistant to lend him an old anthology of poetry, which had first been published some hundred years ago, and then sought a perch where he could dip into it at leisure, without risk to either the book or himself.
The shelter provided by the roots of the big fallen tree seemed a suitable spot, as there was no need for overhead cover providing it remained dry, so Algy settled down on some wee logs, wrapped his shawl around his back, and positioned the book on his knees, taking extra care to keep it off the soil.
Algy's 14th birthday was only a few days away now, and he was still hoping that he might be able to spend the day in a more exciting and much warmer environment, for the weather birds were predicting that it would only feel like a couple of degrees above freezing on the coming Friday… but although he had given it a lot of thought, Algy wasn't sure exactly where he would like to go…
So when he opened the ancient volume in the middle and turned a page, he thought that some mysterious force must have been looking inside his fluffy mind, for he read:
IN melancholic fancy, Out of myself, In the vulcan dancy, All the world surveying, Nowhere staying, Just like a fairy elf; Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, Out o'er the hills, the trees and valleys tripping, Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
(Algy is reading the first verse of the poem Hallo My Fancy by the 17th century Scottish poet William Cleland, in a 1928 edition of the collection Come Hither compiled by the late 19th/early 20th century English poet Walter de la Mare.)
