This world is exactly the kind of world we witches create by image/ination and the elements of magic we find around us. In this poem it is called the Land of Counterpane:
When I was sick and lay a-bed,I had two pillows at my head,And all my toys beside me layTo keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or soI watched my leaden soldiers go,With different uniforms and drills,Among the bed-clothes, through the hills.
And sometimes sent my ships in fleetsAll up and down among the sheets;Or brought my trees and houses out,And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and stillThat sits upon the pillow-hill,And sees before him, dale and plain,The pleasant Land of Counterpane.
Like all witchcraft, this one begins with a journey into another world or between worlds, where changes can be made in all worlds. I find it interesting that Stevenson is almost exactly describing the essence of hedge witchcraft:
The lights from the parlor and kitchen shone outThrough the blinds and the windows and bars;And high overhead and all moving about,There were thousands of millions of stars.There ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree,Nor of people in church or the Park,As the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me,And that glistened and winked in the dark.
The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all,And the star of the sailor, and Mars,These shown in the sky, and the pail by the wallWould be half full of water and stars.They saw me at last, and they chased me with cries,And they soon had me packed into bed;But the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes,And the stars going round in my head.
If only all witches could regain the child's sense of wonder and easy interaction with the worlds around us, in this case the wind:
I saw you toss the kites on highAnd blow the birds about the sky;And all around I heard you pass,Like ladies' skirts across the grass—O wind, a-blowing all day long!O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,But always you yourself you hid.I felt you push, I heard you call,I could not see yourself at all—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,O blower, are you young or old?Are you a beast of field and tree,Or just a stronger child than me?O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!
Stevenson successfully conjures the nocturnal magical world created by the moon, with its sense of danger and strangeness:
The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;She shines on thieves on the garden wall,On streets and fields and harbor quays,And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.
The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,The howling dog by the door of the house,The bat that lies in bed at noon,All love to be out by the light of the moon.
But all of the things that belong to the dayCuddle to sleep to be out of her way;And flowers and children close their eyesTill up in the morning the sun shall arise.
Nor is the real world of adult conflict ignored, In this poem, it is actually placed into a surprisingly sophisticated frame:
When I am grown to man's estateI shall be very proud and great,And tell the other girls and boysNot to meddle with my toys.
Text and image credit for the book: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/25617/25617-h/25617-h.htm
