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Her dad runs one of the blueberries over in his large, calloused hand, rubbing off the outer dust and showing her the shiny, dark undercoat of the berry. He holds it out to her, and she pops it into her mouth. They’re writing poetry in the backyard.

“Do you know why there’s that dust on the outside?” he asks.

“No, why?” She knows she’s about to hear a story, and her eyes light up.

“Well, the Blueberry Faery Clan were having the worst time. The moonlight was shining in their eyes at night, reflecting off the shiny blueberries. It was a problem, to say the least.”

“What did they do about it?” she asks. There’s always a solution to every problem, to every question.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, most of them did nothing, nothing but gripe; but there were two little faery children who decided to do something about it.”

She smiles. She likes this story (the young always make excellent heroes, especially in Faerie stories).

“They took the faery dust they had,” her dad continues, “And each night, when the moon rose, they scattered the faery dust over the blueberries. The dust softened the moonlight. And this solved the problem. The older faeries thought these young folk’s idea so useful, that they helped them each night to disperse the faery dust.

“And that is how two little faeries saved the Blueberry Faery Clan from certain sleeplessness.”

 

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