Pixy Under the dim glow of dusk, before the rooster’s first crow, a fairy darted around a lantern, singing in a looping chant: “Oooh… eggs whirl ‘round the ringster’s crown… Old gray and tricksters, I am, I am, my name is Mrickster!” His voice twirled with mischief. Nearby, the farmer, sharp and sly, crept back to the old red henhouse, hiding to trap the little meddler. When the fairy swooped in, he froze—there stood the farmer, grinning wide. With a hop and a twirl, the farmer belted out, “Oooh, you sneaky rascal, full of tricks, your name’s Mmmmmmrickster!” The fairy let out a piercing shriek at hearing his secret name sung aloud, then vanished—never to trouble that farm again.