You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; this ball is not for you.
photo by Scott Hess
Here you will find a county bearing a well-known name, wherein no chill mists press upon our spirits, and no rain falls but what rolls off our backs like April showers off the backs of sleek drakes; where flowers bloom forever and birds are always singing.
This county is not Fairy-land. What is it? 'Tis the land of Fancy, and is of that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it - whisk! - you depart and 'tis gone, and you are ready for every day life, with no harm done.
(with apologies to Howard Pyle)
And now, lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man's land. Will you come with me, sweet dancer? I thank you. Give me your hand.