This is a collection of short stories relating the adventures of the mystical creature, Tussel Fleabane, Protector of the natural world. Follow his adventures as he appears wherever and whenever his courage and skills are needed.

 
  'Tussel Fleabane was the tiniest man you could ever imagine, and how he came to be called Fleabane he just did not know, however he did know that he shared his name with a little yellow flower that grew in the meadows by the river, and what’s more, it was engraved on the brass plate attached to his front gate post.

  Now I should mention that Tussel was no ordinary being. In fact, he was far too tiny to even be considered as a man. He could stand inside a daffodil trumpet to shelter from a shower of rain, or even swing on a spider’s web to cross a stream, and sometimes just for fun he’d grab a handful of dandelion seeds and float through the air; and if by chance you did happen to surprise him in some woodland clearing, or even spot him paddling in the shallows at the edge of a stream you would be stunned, and quite amazed by this magical little creature. You could easily mistake his golden hair for a buttercup, and think that the flash of his luminous blue eyes was nothing more than the sun reflecting from a polished pebble, but when he turned his impish face and you watched his tiny mouth erupt into a broad grin, you would always remember Tussel Fleabane even though, look and search as you may, he would no longer be there.

  Tussel loved the animals, birds, and insects that lived on planet earth. He delighted in the great harmony of nature, and never set one creature above another. To him, the song of a nightingale, or the call of a rook gave equal pleasure, and his nostrils twitched with delight at the fragrance of rain on a woodland path or the scent of a wild rose. Tussel admired many humans for the wonderful things they did, but often they would make him sad, and sometimes he found it very difficult to understand them. However, in some ways he found it easy to copy them, and in fact he lived in a small cottage built of polished stones with a high pitched roof. It stood in a little clearing by a clear stream at Mallows common, where hart’s tongue and cuckoo pints grew in abundance and his friends would often meet to talk and laugh and sing. Sparkling wines made from the flowers and berries so freely given by the plants in the woods and hedgerows lined his tiny cellar, while his larder was never without pots and jars of fruit and jam to sustain him through the cold winter days.'