Chapter IV: Part 4

“Yes, but Mother will be anxious if I don’t come home all night,” said Mabel, who didn’t at all relish the idea of going to bed with a lot of parcels. “Couldn’t you tell me the way to walk home?”

The Postman shook his wooden head so vigorously that his neck squeaked.

“Well, I think I’ll ask at another house first if you don’t mind, because really Mother will be terribly anxious....”

But Mabel need not have bothered herself about being polite, for the Postman shut the door abruptly and vanished.

A moment afterwards she heard his gruff voice again from above:

“This _was_ a letter-box,” he called down angrily. “But since you won’t be sensible, as far as you’re concerned, in future it’s a don’t-letter-box.”

Mabel turned round and decided to try another house. She chose a green one. This was much more like an ordinary house than the Postman’s, and, indeed, except that it was green all over and that the windows were like cucumber-frames it might not have been situated in Queer Street. She rang the bell, and presently the door was opened by a bulbous-nosed man in a mouldy suit with lawn sleeves, and an apron of green bays. There was only one thing that was very queer about him which was that he had a grass moustache.

“Please, could you tell me the way to Cherrington Gardens?” Mabel asked.

“I could,” said the Greengrocer, for that was who it was, of course.

“Oh, thank you!” Mabel exclaimed.

“But it’s a very heavy weigh from here. It’s a good three pecks, and perhaps a pint or two over. You take the second turnip to the right and the first turnip to the left beyond that, and then if you’re lucky you’ll find a taxi-cabbage or a motor-carrot to lift you the rest of the weigh. It’ll be quite a nice little spinach for you.”

“But, please....” Mabel began.

“Do you mean ‘peas’?” the Greengrocer interrupted.

“Well, I didn’t exactly,” said Mabel.

The Greengrocer shook his head.

“Politeness weighs nothing, you know,” he said severely. “Didn’t your nurse ever tell you that?”

“But I did say ‘please.’”

“You ought to have said ‘peas.’”

Mabel thought she would be wise to humour him.

“Peas, Mr. Greengrocer....” she began again.

“Do you mean ‘peas, Mr. Greengrow, sir?’”

Poor Mabel was getting so fussed by all these interruptions that she could have cried.

“Peas, Mr. Greengrow, sir, I can’t find any turnings—I mean turnips—anywhere.”

“Well, of course, if you can’t find them, you can’t take them, can you?”

“No, I couldn’t, could I?”

“And that’s that?”

She nodded her head dolefully.

“Well, we all have our disappointments,” said the Greengrocer. “I’ve tried for years to find a future for beans. But there isn’t one. So there it is, and we’ll leave it at that.”

With which the Greengrocer retired into his house and shut the door in Mabel’s face. She waited for a moment or two outside in the hope that he would come out again; but a shower of brussels-sprouts came tumbling down on her from one of the upper windows and drove her away from the green-house.

Once more Mabel walked up and down Queer Street trying to find a way out. But the great blank wall was still there, and she began to think that she should have to spend all the rest of her life looking vainly at these strange-coloured houses. The tears rolled down poor Mabel’s pink cheeks, and there’s no knowing how much she would have cried if she had not discovered that she had lost her pocket-handkerchief. So she even had to stop crying, which made her feel terribly sad. At last, after another long examination of the various houses, she decided to try a white house with a zinc door and curious glass windows which instead of having curtains were half full of milk. When Mabel rang the bell she heard the most tremendous jangling you can imagine, such a jangling that she was afraid she had broken something inside, and she was just going to turn round and run away when the door was opened by a very tall, thin man in a long white coat and a face that looked exactly as if it was made of cheese, which in fact it was.

“Please, I can’t....” Mabel began.

“My business is ‘cans,’” he sang. “I’ve nothing to do with ‘can’ts.’ And just mind where you’re treading. You’re trampling down all my buttercups and dairies.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mabel, moving quickly to one side.

“You can borrow my pardon,” sang the Milkman. “Or if you’re quick enough you can steal my pardon. But don’t start begging it, if you don’t want the Policeman in the blue house next door to jug you on the spot.”

“Please, _can_ you tell me the way out of Queer Street?”

“Which way? The milky way, the buttery way, or the curds and way?”

“Oh, any way,” Mabel sighed in desperation.

“Then you’d better take the buttery one. You can slip out more easily that way,” he sang in a very high voice.

“Well, which is the way to the buttery way?”

“Take the first churning to the left or the first churning to the right, whichever you cheese. Then skim the ground and tell the first person you meet the cream of the joke.”

“Yes, but supposing I don’t meet anybody?” poor Mabel asked.

“Why, if it’s a question of meat, you’d better enquire from the Butcher who lives at the flesh-coloured house two doors down. You can’t mistake it. The garden is full of cowslips, bullrushes, and ox-eyed daisies. But mind he doesn’t chop you up when he’s chopping them down.”

The zinc door closed behind him with a rattle and jangle.

“Well, wherever I ask,” Mabel decided, “I won’t ask the Butcher anything. Or the Policeman either.”

Accordingly, she walked past the flesh-coloured house and the blue house without lingering for a moment. The next house was a brown one shaped like a cottage loaf. There was a breakfast Rolls-Royce car outside the gate, which was much more like a fender than a gate. Mabel was on the point of asking at the oven-door if the car could drive her home when the oven-door opened and a woman with her hair done in a hot cross bun puffed out, followed by such a terribly crusty old man that Mabel was afraid to make any enquiries here, and determined to give the Baker and his wife as wide a berth as the Butcher and the Policeman. The next house she came to was the silver house of the Fishmonger. He was leaning over his gate, and as he looked fairly pleasant Mabel asked him to tell her the way out of Queer Street.

“You might row out,” he suggested in a strange gurgling kind of a voice like water running out of a bath. “But it’s not at all a soft row, you know. Oh no, it’s a very hard row. Yes, Queer Street is a very fishy plaice to row out of.”

“But couldn’t I walk out?”

“Oh, you could. But you’ll wear out your soles _and_ your eels long before you walk out of Queer Street. Take my advice, young lady, for I wouldn’t cod you, and trust to boats not boots if you want to get out of Queer Street. Still, if you insist on walking, why, take the first turbot to the right, and the second turbot to the....”

But Mabel put her hands up to her ears and ran away.

“I think all these people must be mad,” she said to herself. “Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t ever walked in the gutter. Nannie always says so many things that _don’t_ come true, but this did come true.”

While Mabel was talking to herself, she suddenly became aware that it was growing dark, and just as she settled to risk being jugged (whatever that might mean) by the Policeman for begging the Greengrocer’s pardon and ask him to take her home, she heard close behind her a horrible voice that sounded like somebody being sick. A moment later she was popped into a large black bag, swung up in the air, and carried off.

“Help! Help!” Mabel shrieked, but the louder she shrieked the more her mouth was filled with some kind of dust. And then she turned perfectly black with fright, for she suddenly realized that it must be the Sweep who had caught her up like this and popped her in his bag. She was on the point of fainting right away, when she was hauled out of the bag by the scruff of the neck and found herself (at least, she didn’t exactly find herself because it was too dark to find anything) in a black room.

“So you want to find your way home, do you?” the horrible voice demanded.

“Yes, please, Mr. Sweep,” she whispered.

“Then up the chimney you’ll go,” the voice whooped.

“Oh, please, I’d rather not go up a chimney,” Mabel screamed.

“Up the chimney you’ll go,” the voice whooped. “We don’t want inquisitive little girls like you in Queer Street.”

“I won’t ever be inquisitive again, Mr. Sweep, if only you’ll show me another way home.”

But it was no use for Mabel to beg for mercy. She felt a pair of bony arms seize her and gasping for breath she found herself being pushed further and further up the chimney by a long pole. Up and up she was pushed, and the further up she got the narrower the chimney became, and then just as she felt she simply must burst she heard the sound of Billie Hawkins’ whistle. The sound seemed to be tumbling down on her like delicious drops of water and looking up she found herself lying on the grass under a great big tree. There was Nannie bending over her with a cup in her hand, and beyond her a little ragged boy was playing a penny whistle, and beyond him a lot of other little ragged boys and girls were staring at her.

“Why ever don’t you look where you’re going?” Nannie was saying. “You gave me a terrible turn when you bumped into that tree and knocked yourself insensible for I don’t know how long.”

“I’m sorry I gave you such a terrible turbot, Nannie, I mean turnip, Nannie.”

“Pore little mite, she’s still feeling queer,” a woman in the crowd said.

“Oh, shan’t I ever get out of Queer Street?” Mabel cried, bursting into tears.

“Why, you silly girl, you’re in Kensington Gardens.”

“Was I quite insensible, Nannie?” she asked.

And I really can’t tell you how proud Mabel was of having been knocked insensible and how jealous all her little girl friends were when Mabel used to boast at the dolls’ tea-parties in Kensington about her exciting adventures in Queer Street.

KING OF THE CASTLE _By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE_

Under the bushes by the gate
Is where I live in royal state,
And lovelier my palace stands
Than any palace made with hands;
For houses made with hands, you see,
Must be what hands can make them be,
But those you build inside your head
Can be just what you like instead.

And so, because to be a king
Is such a very pleasant thing,
Beneath the biggest bush I sit
And rear a palace out of it.
The walls with arras-cloth are hung
And all the woven scenes among
Are magic trees that wave about,
And magic birds hop in and out.

And though the ceiling’s chiefly green,
Magic the spaces in between,
Which, as you watch, all through the day
Are changing—white and blue and grey—
Whilst on the floor are neatly laid
Carpets of brown and gold brocade;
And golden velvet cloths are strewn
To keep quite clean my ivory throne.

And, oh, no king has anywhere
More courtiers than I have there;
Indeed, so many at my call
There are I cannot count them all.
In hose and doublet, silk and lace,
Grandly they move about the place,
Till lawns and paths are gayer far
Than all the gardener’s flower-beds are.

And yet (it’s very strange but true!)
The gardener and the postman too
And milk-boys clattering to and fro
Across my courtyard never know
What splendid folk they walk among,
But pass them as they go along,
For all the world as though there were
Just no one walking, talking there.

Nor do they know—’tis plain to see—
That this small boy who looks like me
Is really King of all the land
And could, did he but lift a hand,
Cast them in deepest dungeons or
Hang, draw and quarter them in four.
Or they’d not dare to shout “Good-day!”
In such a very casual way.

THE BIRD-BATH _By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE_

Under the quince-tree’s shade, away
From garden-paths—half-green, half-grey—
The bird-bath stands, and dipping in it
Sparrow and blackbird, thrush and linnet,
So fierce they flutter wide and far
Scattered the silver splashes are;
You’d hardly think there left could be
One single drop of little me.
And yet when every bird that will
Has dipped and splashed and drunk his fill,
Never I go, with either hand
To hold the bowl and tip-toe stand
And peep, but there with leaves and sky
All mixed—there always still am I.

CARAWAY CAKE _By MABEL MARLOWE_

Biddy the Brownie-cook stood in her little garden, talking over the fence to her neighbour.

“I am going to make a cake for my husband,” she said.

“What kind of cake?”

“A caraway cake.”

“I shouldn’t if I were you,” said the neighbour. “Never make a caraway cake for your husband on Midsummer Eve. The cookery book tells you not to.”

“Oh, I never bother about a cookery book,” said Biddy the Brownie-cook. “I cannot fuss with all the rules, and all the weights and measures. I simply go to the larder and take out all the things that I have, and mix them in a basin, and make a cake—and it is always a nice cake, too.”

She gave her neighbour a smile, and went into her house. She looked in the larder, and found some flour, some butter, some sugar, some spice, and a little packet of caraway seeds.

She put all the things on the table, beside her wooden pastry bowl. Then she looked on the shelf for an egg, but the only egg to be seen was a greenish one, which she had once found in a deserted nest by the mulberry tree.

“Never mind, I must make this do. An egg is an egg all the world over,” said Biddy the Brownie-cook. She took the egg between her finger and thumb, held it over the bowl, and gave it a smart tap with a fork.

POP! The egg flew into a thousand pieces, and out fluttered a tiny yellow bird.

“Tweet! I see some butter,” said the bird, and it flew down to the table and began to peck at the butter.

“Stop that at once! It is my butter,” cried Biddy the Brownie-cook, clapping her hands at the bird.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” said the bird. It dropped a yellow feather from its tail, then it went on eating the butter. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew until it was the size of a missel-thrush.

“Dear, dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg and no butter?” said Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Swee-eet! I see some flour,” said the thrush, and it hopped on to the flour bag, and began to eat up the flour.

“Stop that at once! It is my flour,” cried Biddy, reaching for the rolling-pin, and holding it up like a stick.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” said the thrush. It dropped a nut-brown feather from its tail, then it went on eating the flour. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew, until it was the size of a pigeon.

“Dear dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg, no butter, and no flour?” said Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Coo-ooo! I see some sugar,” said the pigeon, and it hopped upon the sugar bag, and began to eat the sugar.

“Stop that at once! Stop it this moment! It is my sugar. Don’t you dare to touch it, you bothersome bird!” cried Biddy, waving the rolling-pin about.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” cooed the pigeon, and it steadily set to work to eat up all the sugar. It dropped a grey-green feather from its tail. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew until it was the size of a peacock.

“Dear dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg, no butter, no flour, and no sugar?” wailed poor Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Cluck-a-cluck-a-clickety! I see some spice,” said the peacock, dipping its beak into the spice box.

“Stop that at once! Stop it this moment! It is my spice. Don’t you dare to touch it, you good-for-nothing, bothersome bird!” cried Biddy, banging on the table with the rolling-pin. “Don’t you dare to eat my spice, or I will crack you over the head with my rolling-pin.”

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” mumbled the peacock, with his beak half full of spice. It dropped a beautiful peacock’s feather from its tail, then it went on eating the spice. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew, until it was the size of an ostrich.

“Dear dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg, no butter, no flour, no sugar, and no spice?” cried poor Biddy, wiping her eyes.

“Hallo-ullo-ullo-ullo! I see some caraway seeds,” said the ostrich.

“Don’t you dare to touch them! They are my caraway seeds. You have eaten my butter. You have eaten my flour. You have swallowed my sugar and gobbled up my spice. But you shall not have my caraway seeds, indeed you shall not!” cried Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” clucked the ostrich. He dropped a trailing tail-feather upon the table. Then he picked up the bag of caraway seeds, and swallowed them at one gulp.

“You thieving, bothersome, good-for-nothing rascal!” cried Biddy. “How shall I make my cake now, I wonder, with no egg, no butter, no flour, no sugar, no spice, and no caraway seeds? What will my hungry husband say when he comes home?”

“Better make some oat-scones,” said the ostrich.

Then Biddy the Brownie-cook went into the larder, dropping tears as she went. She reached a bag of oatmeal down from the shelf, and came back into the kitchen.

The ostrich was gone.

The caraway seeds, the spice, the sugar, the flour, and the butter were lying on the table beside the wooden pastry bowl. The shell of the little greenish egg was in the bottom of the bowl cracked neatly in half, quite empty.

“Goodness me! I must have been dreaming,” said Biddy the Brownie-cook.

But lying beside the caraway seeds were five feathers: a yellow one, a nut-brown one, a greenish-grey one, a peacock’s one, and a beautiful drooping, ostrich feather.

THE WITCH _By ROSE FYLEMAN_

She has a little funny house
Beside a little stream;
It really, truly seems to me
It’s half a house and half a tree,
Like something in a dream.

She has a pointy, pokey nose,
A pokey, pointy chin;
Her little door is open wide—
I do not dare to peep inside,
Lest she should be within;

Lest she should smile and nod and say,
“Good-day, my pretty daughter,”
And then unhook her wicked broom
And chase me quickly from the room
And push me in the water.

THE PRINCESS WHO COULD NOT LAUGH _By A. A. MILNE_

There was once a King who had an only daughter, the pride of his heart. She was sweet, she was good, she was beautiful, and the King would have said that she was perfection itself, but for one thing. She never laughed. Nothing seemed to amuse her.

Her father, the King, was often amused. The court fool had only to open his mouth, and His Majesty was leaning back in his throne roaring with laughter. Nobody was so quick as His Majesty to see the point of a good story or a clever riddle. But the Princess would listen gravely, and then say “Fancy!” or “Did he really?” or “Well, what happened next?” when the end of the joke had been reached. “My darling,” the King would say, wiping away the tears of laughter which had come into his eyes, “don’t you understand? It’s a _joke_!” And the Princess would answer, “Yes, I see it’s a joke, Father, but why do you make that noise about it?”

For Her Royal Highness always said that she saw a joke as well as anybody. What made her different from the King was that when His Majesty saw a joke he had to make a loud roaring noise, whereas when _she_ saw one, she didn’t want to make any noise at all. Did that matter very much?

“My darling,” said the King, “it isn’t a question of _wanting_ to. If you have a sense of humour, you _have_ to laugh.”

“_I_ don’t,” said the Princess.

“I know,” sighed the King; “you don’t.”

And this made him very miserable. Nothing is so pleasant as to tell a funny story to somebody whom you love, to watch the smile coming on her face, and to hear her sudden laughter, and then to linger with her, your laughter catching new life from hers, in happy enjoyment of the joke. And this pleasure the King did not have.

He did his best. He read straight through to her, from beginning to end, that amusing book _One Thousand Merrie Jestes collected from Manye Sources_, pausing for a moment at the end of each story so that her laughter should not run over on to the next story. But she never laughed once. He then read it through again; still she did not laugh. He gave her to read for herself, _Diverting Tales from Divers Lands_, and watched her face anxiously. She did not smile. Nothing that he could say or do, nothing that the court fool could say or do, changed the gravity of her face. She was sweet, she was good, she was beautiful—but she could not laugh.

A time came when the King could not bear it any longer, and he felt that somehow or other the young Princess must be moved to laughter. In his difficulty he consulted his Chancellor, than whom there was supposed to be no wiser man in His Majesty’s kingdom. Now the Chancellor had a son, the young Count Hoppo, a fellow of no great learning, nor beauty, nor bravery—a fellow, indeed, of no personal attraction whatsoever, but a young man esteemed in his family as a jester. The Chancellor therefore spoke as follows:

“I would suggest Your Majesty, that it be announced to Your Majesty’s faithful people that he who is first able to move Her Royal Highness to laughter be rewarded by the hand of Her Royal Highness and half your Majesty’s kingdom.”

“What do you say, my love?” said the King to his daughter.

“As you please,” said the Princess. “I shall not laugh, for it seems that I have no wish to laugh, nor do I greatly desire to marry. But as you please.”

The King turned to his Chancellor.

“Let it be so announced,” he commanded. “At noon henceforward, for the space of one half-hour, those with humorous riddles or merry jests to tell shall have audience before the whole court, and he who first moves Her Royal Highness to laughter shall be rewarded by her hand in marriage.”

“_And_ half the kingdom?” said the Chancellor anxiously.

“Is that usual?” asked the King.

“Entirely, Your Majesty.”

“Very well. So be it. To-morrow at noon we shall await the competitors.”

At noon, then, all those with good stories to tell, or merry riddles to propound, attended at the Palace, and foremost amongst them was the young Count Hoppo. So one by one they put their riddles or told their stories, and Her Royal Highness listened to them.

“Tell me, Your Royal Highness,” said Count Hoppo, “why does a dragon cross the road?”

The King, who knew this one, began to chuckle to himself.

“I suppose,” said the Princess, “that he crosses the road in order to get to the other side.”

“Y-yes,” said Hoppo, a little annoyed. “Yes, exactly.”

“Well?” said the Princess.

“That’s all,” said Hoppo crossly.

“Was it funny?” she said, turning to the King.

“My dear,” said her father, “you missed the point of the joke. The point of the joke was that if _you_ said—I mean, what he _expected_ you to say—then _he_ would have said—only you didn’t.”

“But why else _should_ a dragon cross the road?”

“Quite so,” said the King quickly. “Next competitor.”

Another young man stepped forward and enquired of Her Royal Highness why a silver bowl was like a wasp’s nest.

“It isn’t,” said the Princess. She turned to the King. “Is it, father?”

“It’s a riddle, dear,” explained His Majesty, and he murmured to himself, “Why is a silver bowl like a wasp’s nest—like a wasp’s nest.”

“I still think it isn’t,” said the Princess.

“Well?” said the King to the questioner. “Why _is_ a silver bowl like a wasp’s nest?”

“Because there’s a ‘B’ in ‘BOTH,’ Your Majesty.”

His Majesty roared with laughter.

“Not in a _wasp’s_ nest,” said the Princess, “surely!”

The King explained that the _letter_ “B” was in the _word_ “BOTH.”

“Then why drag in the wasps’ nest?”

The King explained that that was the joke.

“I see,” said the Princess, but she did not laugh.

Then a third young man came forward, and this was the Count Rollo. Tall and handsome he was, and of a pleasant smiling countenance, so that the Princess thought to herself: “If only _he_ would win, and not that horrid Count Hoppo.” Count Rollo, it seemed, desired to know the difference between a fly and a bird.

“A fly and a bird,” murmured the King to himself, “a fly and a bird, a fly and a bird, a fly and a bird.”

The Princess hastened to tell him.

“A bird,” she said, “has feathers on its wings, but a fly has not. A bird lays eggs, and a fly—no, that’s wrong, because flies do lay eggs. But a fly hasn’t got a beak. And it doesn’t build a nest. Oh, and it’s much smaller than a bird.”

“All this is true!” smiled Rollo, “but there is another difference, Your Royal Highness.”

“Well?” said the King.

“A bird can fly, Your Majesty, but a fly cannot bird.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” went the King. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha!”

“Cannot _what_?” asked the Princess.

“Cannot bird, Your Royal Highness.”

“But what _is_ ‘birding’?”

“That is what the poor fly never knew, Your Royal Highness, and often wondered. It seems so unfair, does it not, that if a bird can fly whenever it likes, the fly can never bird, however much it wants to.”

“It does seem rather unfair,” said the Princess, nodding to him in a friendly way.

But she did not laugh.

So, in their turn, all the young men of the country put their riddles and told their stories, not only on that day, but on many other days. And, one by one, they grew tired of trying to make laugh a Princess who could not laugh, and they came no more to the court at the hour of noon. But Count Hoppo and Count Rollo came always, for that Hoppo wished mightily for the half of His Majesty’s kingdom, and Rollo loved and was loved by the Princess. So in the end they two stood there alone.

Now this was to be the last trial between them, wherefore each had spent the night in anxious preparation for the morrow, Rollo wondering which of the few stories he had left untold would be most likely to amuse the Princess, and Hoppo bethinking him of a plan whereby at the same time he might win the Princess and discomfort his rival.

On the morrow, then, before the whole court Count Hoppo and Count Rollo made final trial for the hand of the Princess. And the Princess looked at them as they stood there before her, and wished with all her heart that it might be Count Rollo who should make her laugh. So Count Rollo came forward to tell her his story.

“There was,” he said, “a stranger who came into a far country, and he desired to know the way to the King’s palace, for he had a present to lay before the King. So he stopped one whom he met on the road, and said to him: ‘Pray, sir, do you know the way to the King’s palace?’ Whereupon the man, wishing to be thought humorous, replied, ‘Yes, I do,’ and walked on. But a moment later, fearing lest his joke should be mistaken for rudeness, he hurried after the stranger, and said, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but do you wish to know the way to the palace?’ ‘No,’ said the stranger, ‘I don’t,’ and left him there.”

To the King this seemed such a delightfully silly joke that it was some minutes before he could recover his gravity, but the Princess could only look sadly and wistfully at Count Rollo.

“Well, well,” said the King, “you shall have one more turn later. Now it is for Count Hoppo to try.”

Now Count Hoppo was minded to try a trick with which he had often amused the members of his own family. For it had long been a habit of his, when some unwelcome guest was arriving at his father’s door, to prepare a butter-slide in the hall, so that, treading unwarily upon it, the visitor should slip, and his feet should fly into the air, and he should fall heavily to the ground, to the great enjoyment of those of the family who were looking on. So for this occasion he had prepared a most amusing butter-slide a few paces from where he and Count Rollo stood, and had warned his father, the Chancellor, to take care that no members of the court trod upon it before the trial began. So now he stepped forward, feeling well assured that in one and the same moment he would win the hand of the Princess and put to shame and laughter the hated Count Rollo.

“I propose,” he said, “to show Your Royal Highness a small humorous joke of a practical nature, which cannot fail to move Your Royal Highness to loud and hearty laughter. Perhaps, before I begin, the Count Rollo would oblige me by moving a little farther away, so as to give me more room for my joke.” He turned to Rollo. “If you would be so good as to withdraw a few paces towards the window——”

He indicated with a careless gesture the necessary direction, and bowed to Rollo. Rollo bowed to him in reply; bowed gracefully to the King and still more gracefully to the Princess. Then, still bowing with the utmost ease and elegance, he retired a few paces backwards and stepped gracefully upon the butter-slide. There was a loud crash.

“Oh!” gasped the Princess. “Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! Oh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh-he-he-he-he-he!” It was as if somebody had suddenly pressed a button inside her. Her laughter pealed round the palace walls. She laughed up and up and up and up, and she laughed down and down and down and down. She trilled and gurgled and choked, and choked and gurgled and trilled. It seemed that there was no end to her laughter.

The King too was laughing, the Chancellor was laughing, Count Hoppo was laughing. Save for one man the whole court was laughing.

Count Rollo did not laugh. Feeling ashamed and miserable and angry, he picked himself up and gave the Princess one reproachful look.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” gasped the Princess. “I didn’t mean to laugh, I don’t know why I did laugh, I don’t want to laugh, I——” And then she trilled and gurgled and choked, and choked and gurgled and trilled all over again.

As soon as quiet was restored, the Chancellor stepped forward.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “on behalf of the young Count Hoppo I claim the promised reward.”

“Count Hoppo?” said the King in surprise. “But it was just an accident, was it not?”

“Not so, Your Majesty,” replied Hoppo proudly. And he explained how, with great cleverness, he had prepared the butter-slide, and how, with great cunning, he had arranged for Count Rollo to step upon it. And all the court said “Well, well, well!” and “Fancy that now!” And the King frowned and considered the matter.

“Ah, well, in that case,” said His Majesty, “you may fairly claim to have succeeded in moving Her Royal Highness to laughter.” He turned to Count Rollo. “You agree that that is so, Count Rollo?”

Rollo looked at the Princess, and she looked back at him, and their eyes spoke to each other. As plainly as if she were speaking her eyes cried to him, “Save me from this Count Hoppo!” And Rollo smiled back at her, and gave a little nod, as if he would say, “It will be all right.” For an idea had come to him.

So he turned like one in thought, and walked a few paces off. Then, turning again to the King, he said:

“Your Majesty, since I have seen Her Royal Highness day by day, these many days, I have dared to love her. If Your Majesty says now that she is to be wedded to the Count Hoppo, it will be better that I should not look upon her again. But I venture to make this last request of her. I ask her to come down from her throne and say farewell to me here, not as Princess to subject, but as maid to man.”

And he went down on one knee and waited for her.

“I will come,” said the Princess softly.

So she came to him; and, as she drew near, she stepped suddenly upon the butter-slide, and her feet shot into the air, and she fell heavily upon the floor.

There was a cry of anger from the Princess, followed by a cry of horror from all the court. A dozen hands helped her to her feet, and supported her again to the side of her father, the King, who comforted her with royal words.

“But this is passing strange!” said Rollo loudly. “How comes it that Her Royal Highness does not laugh? Was it not a funny jest?”

The King looked at him with sudden suspicion.

“What does this mean?” said the King sternly. “This talk of saying farewell, was it just a plot to make Her Royal Highness fall?”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” said Rollo pleasantly. “I hoped that Count Hoppo’s delightful jest would amuse us all again.” He turned to the Princess. “Was Your Royal Highness not amused?”

“We were not amused,” said Her Royal Highness coldly.

“Certainly not,” said the King with dignity.

“But Your Royal Highness was amused before,” said Rollo gently.

“That was altogether different,” said the King.

Then Count Rollo smiled at them all. “In that case, Your Majesty, it was not Count Hoppo’s butter-slide which made Her Royal Highness laugh, but my extremely humorous way of kicking my feet in the air and falling to the ground.”

Then it was the turn of the Princess to smile, as she saw what Rollo would be at.

“Why, yes,” said the King in surprise. “That had not occurred to me, but indeed it would seem to be so. What do you say, my dear?”

“Of course it is, father!” said the Princess quickly. “It was Count Rollo who made me laugh, not Count Hoppo.”

But now Count Hoppo, seeing how things were going against him, cried out suddenly:

“It _was_ me, Your Majesty, it _was_ me! If _I_ had fallen down, _I_ would have made the Princess laugh, just as loudly as Count Rollo did! I’ll make her laugh now! Watch me!” And with these words, he ran across the butter-slide so swiftly that his feet leapt in the air, and he shot heavily through the window and dropped twenty feet below, _splash!_ into the royal fishpond!

“How vulgar!” said the Princess, with her nose in the air.

So young Count Rollo married the Princess, and they lived and loved and laughed happily together for more years than I can remember. But what happened to Count Hoppo when they had dragged him out of the fishpond, I never heard; nor, indeed, does it matter very much.

“WISH TO GOODNESS!” _By LAURENCE HOUSMAN_

In spite of his name, Mr. Peter Comely was a very ordinary-looking person; and but for one initial circumstance his life had not contained any event worth recording. The initial circumstance took place upon the day of his birth: though the son of poor but honest parents, he managed by accident to get a fairy-godmother.

This is how it came about. His mother, having previously had eleven daughters, in pairs or in triplets, remarked at the moment when she was most expecting him: “Well, I hope to gracious goodness that this time they’ll bring a boy.”

Now it so happened that the fairy Gracious Goodness was passing by at the time—out of employment and looking for something to do; and hearing her name thus invoked, she stopped and gave the matter her attention.

Peter Comely was born a boy, and without accompaniments, as his mother had desired; and the fairy, having seen him into the world, in order that she might know him again when necessary, made a neat finish of the matter by appearing before the eyes of his astonished parents, to whom she announced her name and calling. Then, having bestowed upon the child a birthday gift suitable to his station in life, she vanished into thin air, and seemed thenceforth to have washed her fairy hands of him.

The gift she left to him, though to his parents it seemed humdrum and useless, to Peter himself was quite satisfactory. She gave him contentment; and so through life contented he remained though poor, and therefore—in spite of the efforts of his parents to sow in him the seeds of a criminal ambition—honest, meek, unassuming, and to most people rather uninteresting.

As he grew up, having few wants, he had also few ideas; and though upon each of his birthdays, unknown to his parents, his fairy-godmother paid him a private visit to ask whether he wanted for anything, his answer always was that he wanted nothing; nor did he even trouble to tell anybody of the fairy’s visits, or give a thought himself to the brilliant bargains he might have got out of life from the offers made to him.

So when he came to man’s estate, though he might have had anything for the asking, he turned to and worked for a weaver’s wage, as his father had occasionally done before him, and lived as all other poor men have to do—with only this unfortunate difference, that he remained quite contented with his lot; and though he worked well, and was worth much more than his master paid him, he never asked for a rise; which, while it mattered little to him, was bad for his master.

That, however, is only by the way; but I don’t want any of my readers to think that contentment is everything, or good under all circumstances. Disturbance is sometimes far better: water, in a kettle that doesn’t boil over, makes bad tea.

Now one day—one of his birthdays—a certain young person of the village, who had a sharp eye for the main chance, happened to look in and see him over his loom, talking to a beautiful lady with wings; and all of a sudden it came to her that a certain queer story she had heard told by his disreputable parents, and had never believed, was true after all; and that poor simple Peter Comely really had a fairy-godmother. It seemed also—and this made the discovery more valuable—that the fairy still took an interest in him.

Instantly she made up her mind to marry him; and Peter, though he would have been quite content to remain a bachelor, was equally content when, by the various ways available to that end, the young woman managed to become first “_his_ young woman,” as the saying goes, and then his wife.

Having got him, Mrs. Comely lost no time in tackling him on the subject of his fairy birthright. Peter was quite simple and open about it; and his wife discovered that, having been given a contented nature from his birth, he had made no further use of it in spite of the opportunities which the fairy’s repeated visits afforded him.

“I wish to goodness you’d told me sooner!” was her complaining remark, when she found that it was only on his birthday that the fairy visited him. For now there was nearly a year to run; and with the knowledge that her married circumstances could so easily have been altered for the better, had only the right remedy been applied at the start, Mrs. Comely became deeply discontented with her surroundings, with Peter’s wages as a weaver, and with Peter himself as a man. In fact, there was nothing now that pleased her; and what pleased her least of all was her husband’s contentment with things as they were.

The consequence was she was always in a bad temper; and, as is the way with people when they are far from a state of goodness themselves, “Wish to goodness!” became the daily expression of her impatience against one who took everything so patiently. But nothing she could do—though she tried her best—ever made him discontented.

Behind her back, friends—who saw what sort of a wife he had become saddled with—would come to condole. “Your wife’s a bit of a handful, isn’t she?” one would say. And “Oh, aye!” Peter would answer; “a nice handful she is, for sure—or would be, if you tried to hold her. But let her go her own way, it’s no odds to me.”

“Hard to please, isn’t she? I’ve been told so.”

“I’ve never seen anything please her yet,” said Peter, smiling, “except to tell me what a fool she thinks me! And put it that way, you might say that I do manage always to please her. Well, if that suits her, it suits me all right; gives her something to talk about, and me something to listen to that I can understand. For I’m not clever, you know, and if I’d any doubt about it myself, I’ve got her word for it.”

“Peter, you are too easy,” said his friend. “You’ve got your senses like all the rest of us. The mistake you make is to think too little of yourself. The fact is your wife has got a bad temper.”

“Oh yes,” said Peter, “her temper’s bad, I know. But it’s beautifully bad; it suits her.”

And just then Mrs. Peter put her head in at the door, and cried: “Wish to goodness, you wouldn’t have lazy giddygaddies coming in talking and wasting your time all day, when you ought to be at work. Goodness gracious! I might as well have married a turnstile, the way you let folk in for the asking, as ought to be stopped if they don’t know any better themselves, coming in work-time.”

Before she had finished her commentary, Peter’s friend had slunk away, having had enough of it.

But Peter only said: “We were talking about you, my dear.”

“And what were you saying about me, I’d like to know?”

“I was saying that whatever you did suited you.”

“Did? Suited me? Like what?”

“Well, for instance—losing your temper.”

“If I ever lost my temper with a fool like you, there’d be no finding it again.”

“No, my dear; but you never do. When you are with me you are always _in_ a temper.”

“And reason enough, too!”

“Yes, my dear; I’ve never denied it.”

“Better not. If you did there’d be trouble.”

“Yes, my dear; and I don’t like giving trouble, you see.”

“_Giving_, indeed!” she cried; “it’s _I_ have to pay for it!” and off she flounced. Try as she would, she could never get at him. Peter always remained amiable and contented, and also—which is what tried her most—slightly amused. Whatever she did to make him do otherwise, Peter always appreciated her qualities at their full worth. Once, losing all patience with him, she gave him quite a hard knock over the head with a rolling-pin.

Peter looked at her with admiration.

“Now I should never have thought you could hit me as hard as that,” he said—“a little woman like you. I wonder if I could hit you as hard?”

“You’d better not try!” she retorted.

“No, my dear: _you_ mightn’t like it,” explained Peter, smiling, as he put court sticking-plaster on his forehead, tied a piece of string round it to keep it in place, and stuck it with sealing-wax for a neat finish.

Mrs. Comely was beaten, and knew it. “I don’t know what’s the matter with him!” she would say to herself sometimes. “It’s not human; it’s not reasonable. It’s that fairy of his has gone and got into his blood, and made him into something that’s more like a ball of wool or a piece of putty than a man. And I wish to goodness his birthday would come round quick, so that I could put things right for us!”

Poor woman! during that time of waiting she was sadly tried. But at last his birthday did come round again.

Mrs. Comely was full of expectation and hope. She was almost nice to him on the morning of the day, feeling her cares so nearly at an end; for, of course, now, being his wife and upon the spot, she meant to do the wishing, and had instructed him accordingly. When the fairy came he was to be sure to call for her before doing anything.

But it so happened that Peter, being short of yarn for his weaving, had to go out and buy more.

Mrs. Comely let him go, for she could not bear to see him not working; but she called after him to be quick home again, being afraid that the fairy might come while he was out.

Unfortunately he met the fairy before he had got back from his errand. Just as he was coming through the wood, she slid down the tree on which she had been waiting for him, and standing before him, radiant with gracious goodness, cried: “Many happy returns of the day, Peter. Is there anything you want?”

Peter stood considering: “No,” he said, “there’s nothing I want for myself; but my wife wants me to be quick home again.”

And scarcely had he said it, when home he was, and the fairy—having done her duty by him—nowhere to be seen for the whole of another year.

“Gracious goodness! you have been quick!” cried his wife, as he came in. “I’ll say that for you.”

“Yes, I have rather,” said Peter, as he moved off to his work. Then he bethought him, and stopped to explain. “You see, it happened like this: while I was out I met godmother. She said, Did I want anything? I said _I_ didn’t, but you wanted me quick home again. So here I am. Very kind of her, wasn’t it?”

What Mrs. Comely said then, cannot be set down upon the printed page. And what she continued to say, for a whole year whenever she thought of it, was so similar that the only thing one can do in decency is to leave it at that, and let the year go by unrecorded till it bring us to the morning of Peter’s next birthday.

Peter was in bed with a cold, an extremely bad cold—the sort of cold that is called double pneumonia, which, though it sounds like the name of a flower, is really something much more ugly and dangerous and hard to get rid of. And only the night before, the Doctor had come and told Mrs. Comely that he was very much afraid Peter was going to die.

Mrs. Comely was much put out by the news. “Can’t you make him live just for another day, Doctor?” she enquired complainingly; and the Doctor said he would do his best.

“You see, he hasn’t made his will,” said Mrs. Comely by way of explanation, not wishing to let more be known about her actual expectations than was necessary.

To Peter, also, she said much the same thing. “I do really think,” she exclaimed, “after all I’ve had to put up with, marrying you, and only finding out after what a fool you are, that you might at least do that for me—keep alive till your godmother has come to make it more worth while to me than it’s ever been yet.”

“What exactly is it you want this time?” enquired Peter. “You’d better let me know so that I don’t make any mistake.”

“Well, I want you to keep alive,” she replied; “you do that, and I’ll see to the rest.”

And having him there in bed, and she being herself on the spot to answer the door, she made sure that this time at all events the situation was fool-proof, and that all would be right.

But things did not happen quite as she had expected, she not being accustomed to the ways of fairies, who can, if they like, be quite independent of such gradual methods of approach as front-doors with door-mats, and door-bells with some one to answer them; a fairy who really knows her job is right in the middle of things before you know that she is there at all.

And so, when Mrs. Comely went down to make some beef-tea for her husband, the fairy arrived, this time not down a tree but down the chimney; and very sorry to find him so ill, wished Peter much happier returns of the day than could be said of the present one. “And what,” she then enquired, “can I do for you?”

Peter said he didn’t know that there was anything she could do for him. He had got double pneumonia, and had got it so well that the Doctor—so his wife told him—thought he would die of it.

“And I don’t know,” he added, “whether she wants me not to die of it. All she has said she does want is that I may live for another day.”

“You shall live for another day,” said the fairy, “and for many another day too. Here’s life to you! Take your own time, and get well! A year hence I will come again and see how you are doing.”

Scarcely had the fairy departed when Mrs. Comely returned with the beef-tea. Her husband, though with the fairy’s word for it he might now be said to be on the mend, showed so little sign of a change for the better that she would not have noticed it, had he not himself told her.

“You have got your wish, my dear,” he said. “I am not going to die to-day. She has just been and promised that I shan’t—that I am going to get well.”

Mrs. Peter was so amazed and so angry to think that she had again missed meeting the fairy through her husband’s stupidity, that with a flounce and a bounce she upset the soup over him.

“Well, that’s an easy way of taking it, isn’t it?” he remarked, as he watched it slide over the bed-clothes in a large shifting pattern of brownish yellow. “I suppose if you leave it it’ll soak in all right.”

“It’s my belief,” snapped his wife, ignoring the discomfort she had caused him, “that you haven’t got a fairy godmother at all, and that what I saw was only a young woman out of the circus, and one no better than she should be—with wings stuck on for her to act with; and that you’ve been deceiving me all this time!”

“Very well, my dear,” replied Peter, “believe what you like to believe, if it makes you happier. But you’ll have to believe your eyes presently, when you see me get well. Only yesterday, you told me, the Doctor said I was dying.”

“Doctors make mistakes,” she retorted. “I almost wish you were going to die!”

“Now what a pity,” said Peter, “that I didn’t know that sooner, and then I might have asked for it. But what you told me, you know, my dear, was just the contrary. You wanted me to live, you said.”

“Only a day!” said his wife. “And now I’ve got to have another year of you, and then perhaps find out that it’s all a lie, and that fairy-godmother of yours just straw and moonshine, like all the rest of you. Goodness gracious! I wish I’d never married you!”