I leave a handful of seeds outside my garden gate when I plant in the spring.
The faeries don’t like it if I forget them. They like to plant their own little gardens, sometimes beneath my flowerpots, sometimes under the porch in the front yard where the light is dim and the mice leave their little droppings. The faeries don’t like it when I forget. If I do, they’ll take their own seeds when my plants are grown. They climb the stalks of the tall sunflowers and pry seeds out of the bobbing heads, they burrow into my pumpkins and squash and leave holes after they’ve dragged their prizes out. I’ve caught them a few times at such games, but I don’t have the heart to scold them for long. They look so funny with pumpkin goop in their fiery hair and smeared on their little faces. They try to hide the seeds when I catch them, but pumpkins seeds are so large, almost bigger than they themselves are. They never manage it.
But I am never cross.
I like them in my gardens. They dig the potatoes for me, because I tell them that we are digging for treasure that the moles have buried. They tickle my geraniums, tease my peas, pick my beans. They like my bird bath best of all. They chase the sparrows and chickadees away when they want to have a wash, usually in the early morning or late evening when I am working in the beds.
I scold them, but I don’t mind. Not really. I like them in my gardens.