It is a fairy tale with every fairy but one grown up. For Lisbeth is no less a fairy because her hair is up, nor is Dick any the less a fairy prince because he is in trousers, nor the Imp any less Puck because he is in the disguise of the dearest, naughtiest, most lovable little boy in the world. These, then, are the fairies. The ‚humans, ‚ of course, do the deeds usually left for humans to do. They try to separate young lovers, marry charming girls against their will, and possess no sense of humour. Happily, they do not count-at least, not at the end. All who matter are the lovers and the little boy, and these make the happiest, pleasantest, most adorable little trio of romantics with whom to pass a few hours of an April day. There is about The Chronicles of the Imp that indescribable quality called ‚charm.‘ What matter if you can easily guess the end the moment you have grasped the beginning?
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