Sadness

Oh it's alright for some fairies, they get to be flower fairies say, fairy of bluebell and fresia and daffodil. Other fairies get to be fairies of butterfly and bird, robin and monarch. Some are tied to places, fairies of hill and vale and forest and stream. Yet others are tied to times, the energetic, young fairies of springtime, the motherly, wise ones of harvest, the witcety ones of midwinter.

Not all are so glamorous of course, those of mushroom and toadstool are oft confused with goblins and imps, but even they gt some respect and are oft seen in painting and in lore. Fairies of autumn and mosses and leaves, they too are harder to find, but live content, if unassuming lives.

But woe is the snail fairy! Woe! Those dedicated to the grasshopper and slug, the spider and earwig. For while others are looked on and admired, their charges adored and painted and admired by all that see them, these fairies, these fairies are doomed always to see their charges, each one a miracle of life, some strange almost unearthly construction blending so perfectly into their world, so suited to their lives, little examples of perfection, snuffed out beneath a giant boot and a disdainful cry of 'Ew! A bug!'