JACK AND JILL

"When the well is dry, they know the worth of water"

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

"Oh dear, how I hate the rain," said Jack to Jill, as they stood at the window watching the drops trickling down the window-pane. "We can't do anything really nice when it is raining. I wish someone would take all the rain away so that we could have nothing but fine days."

I have heard Jacks and Jills say much the same things nowadays! But this particular Jack and Jill do not live nowadays at all. They lived a very long time ago, in a far-off country. So long ago, and so far off, that witches were still alive, and one of them actually lived in their own village!

The village straggled up the side of a hill, and the Witch's cottage was at the top of it.

It was a queer-looking, tumble-down place, but people said that from it there were trap doors and passages leading to all sorts of caves and cellars dug out of the ground underneath. It was surrounded by very high branching palings with skull-shaped knobs on the top of them.

The people in the village hardly ever saw the old Witch, except during thunderstorms and after late winter parties; but everyone who had seen her, declared that she was very ugly, and beyond a doubt very wicked. She had an uncomfortable way, too, of sometimes appearing suddenly when she was not wanted, and granting people's wishes. This sounds very nice, but it may be horribly inconvenient. The villagers realised this, and it had become the fashion never to wish for anything; and so, despite the presence of the Witch, the village was a happy and contended place enough.

Jack was certainly not thinking about the old Witch when he said, "Oh dear, how I hate the rain," on that particular afternoon.

And Jill was certainly not thinking about the old Witch, when, a few minutes later, she heard a "tap-tap" on the door, louder and more insistent than the pattering of the raindrops on the window-pane.

So they were both of them distinctly frightened when they went to the door and saw—who but the old Witch herself, on the doorstep!

"Oh dear," said Jack.

"Won't you come in?" said Jill.

And in she came.

She was certainly very ugly. She had a hooked nose and pointed chin. Grey wisps of hair straggled out from beneath her poke bonnet. Her eyes were like two snakes, and when she opened her mouth to speak she showed her long pointed iron teeth. She was dressed in a black cloak, from which protruded her long skinny arms and claw-like hands. She carried a broom-stick, and behind her slunk her cat, all draggled with the wet, and mewing frightfully. She sat down on the chair Jill offered her.

"Thank you, my dear," she said, in a voice so harsh and grating that it sounded like a saw scraping over a stone.

"Surely you wouldn't grudge a poor old woman a rest on the way up to her cottage." This with a leering grin at Jack, who was obviously disconcerted at her presence.

Jack tried to make some polite reply, and then there was a long silence, only broken by the pat, pat patter of the raindrops against the window-pane.

"Now I wonder what you two were talking about so nicely when I came in?" said the old Witch at last.

"We were talking about the rain," said Jill.

"Yes," blurted out Jack, "we were saying, at least I was, that I hated the rain. You see, we can't go out when it is raining, and to-morrow everything will be wet, and we shan't be allowed to walk on the grass, and there won't be any cricket for days. Oh, I wish——"

"Ye-es," drawled out the old Witch. "I thought so. You wish that there was not any rain at all."

"Why, yes," said Jack.

"Would you like that too, my pretty dear?" said the old Witch, turning to Jill.

"Yes," said Jill.

"Very well," said the old Witch. "Ve-ry well! Let us make a bargain together. If you, my little dear, (turning to Jill) will come and serve me for a year and a day, I'll manage this rain business for you," and she scraped her iron teeth together and smiled more horribly than ever.

"May I not come and serve you, too?" said Jack.

"Dear me, no!" said the old Witch, bringing her lips together with a smack. "I don't want any boys about the place. Besides, you'll be able to enjoy some of the fine weather first, and can tell your sister how delightful it is when she comes back," and she winked at the cat, who winked one of his green eyes back at her.

"Is it a bar-gain?" drawled the old Witch.

"Yes," said Jack and Jill together.

Then the old Witch drew from her under cloak, a long thin bag made of elastic. This she opened, and hung out of the window.

The rain poured in. When the bag was quite full she whipped a piece of string out of her pocket and tied up the top end. "That will do for the present," she said. "You can carry the bag, my little dear, and we will go straight home and begin work immediately. Say good-bye to your brother and come along."

So Jill kissed Jack, took up the sack, (it was wonderful how very heavy it was,) and opened the door to go out. It had stopped raining, but was still grey and cloudy. As it was already dusk there was no one in the village street as they climbed the hill to the old Witch's cottage followed by the cat. They went slowly. Jill had plenty of time to look about her. The familiar cottage gardens were bright with flowers. Behind them spread the fields thick and lush with growing grass. Over the road arched the trees in all the freshness of their first spring beauty. At the foot of the hill babbled and gurgled the village stream, by the side of which clacked and chattered a few ducks revelling in the glories of the recent shower. Everything smelt fresh and pure and spring-like. Only she, Jill, was tired, for the old Witch's elastic bag seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and the cat would keep on rubbing up against her legs and disconcerting her by winking and blinking up at her with his green eyes.

It was quite dark when they reached the old Witch's cottage. Jill felt she must be getting sleepy, but it certainly appeared to her as if the branching palings round the cottage were really long lean arms joining their skinny hands, and as if the skull-shaped knobs on the top of them were real skulls.

As they approached, all the eyes of all the skulls suddenly lit up like lanterns. Jill began to wish that she had never come.

They went in. The room was very small and dark, and the ceiling was covered with cobwebs. There was a horrible smell coming from a huge cauldron on the fire.

"Hurry up there," called out the old Witch sharply. "Put the bag down on the floor and lay the table for supper."

Jill let down the bag on to the floor with a thud that disturbed several spiders and snakes which were crawling about.

"Hurry up there!" called out the old Witch again.

Jill laid the supper. The old Witch ate hastily, clawing huge pieces of meat out of the smoking cauldron, and throwing titbits to the cat, who lay, winking and blinking as usual, in front of the fire.

After supper the old Witch called out, "Pick up the bag and follow me."

So Jill picked up the bag and followed the Witch into a corner of the kitchen.

"Lift up the floor
And open door,"

bawled out the old Witch, tapping the floor with her broomstick.

Immediately a square piece of the floor slid away, revealing a long flight of black steps.

"Follow me," said the old Witch again.

She went on down the steps and Jill followed, dragging the bag after her.

The steps were very dark and winding, but at last they reached the bottom. Jill found herself in a huge vault.

She first of all thought the vault was empty, but when her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw that it was filled with rows and rows of empty casks. Though the casks were empty, yet each one had a label. Jill strained her eyes to read some of the labels in the dim light. "Showers," "Dew," "Drinking-water!"

"What extraordinary labels!" she said to herself, and went on to the next row. "Taps," "Washing-water," "Streams," "Rivers," "Mists," "Frosts." One very large one was labelled "Thunder-storms." The next one to it, "Raindrops, Special, extra loud patterers." The next one, "Steam reserved for Boats, second best quality only." Rows upon rows of them, all empty, and all labelled with these curious labels!

"Bring the bag here," said the old Witch, pointing to a cask labelled "Spring Showers. Pure Refreshers."

Jill lifted up the bag and untied the string. The water went pattering into the cask. When the bag was empty, and the cask was full, a lid slid on to the cask by itself. Then the old Witch touched one of the walls, and another door flew open, leading to a second and much smaller vault. This vault was full of elastic bags like the one Jill had carried up the hill.

"Take as many of these as you can carry," said the old Witch.

So Jill picked up as many as she could carry, and they went back the way they had come.

When they reached the kitchen again the old Witch called out:

"Shut down the floor
And close the door,"

and the floor closed up again.

"I am going out now," said the old Witch. "I shall not be back till to-morrow at dusk. I shall lock the door so that you cannot get out. Clean the place and have supper ready for me when I come back."

She took her broomstick. Then, slinging all the empty bags across it, and balancing the cat on the other end, she mounted it astride.

"Abracadabra!" shouted she.

The broomstick rose up in the air and swirled through the window, which shut down after her with a bang.

So Jill was left alone to work as best she might. The next night when dusk approached she laid the supper and set the cauldron boiling.

"Abracadabra," and in swirled the Witch again, and the window shut after her with a bang!

The elastic bags were full and distended as the old Witch flopped them on to the floor.

"They are all full of water," said she.

"Where did you get it from?" ventured Jill.

"Aha, I stole it!" said the old Witch, with a wicked grin. "When the people weren't looking, I stole it! A bag here, and a bag there. Some nice little thunderstorms I got too. They won't like it when they wake up to-morrow and find their wells dried up, and their grass withering. Ha! ha! ha!" and the old Witch ground her teeth together more maliciously than ever.

"Now, come along, pick up those bags and follow me," she cried, when she had finished eating her supper. So Jill picked up the bags.

"Lift up the floor
And open door,"

shouted the old Witch, tapping the floor with her broomstick. Once more they went down the dark steps into the vault. Jill untied the sacks and emptied them into the different casks according to the Witch's directions, and as each cask was filled a lid slid on of itself. There was a terrible noise while the thunder-storm cask was being filled, and the old Witch had to mutter spells all the time to prevent it from running over.

When the bags were empty and the casks full, the old Witch went into the next vault and made Jill pick up and add some more bags to the number that she already had.

Then they went back to the kitchen again. At the top of the steps the Witch called out:

"Shut down the floor
And close the door,"

and the floor closed up again.

"I am going out now," said the old Witch as before. "I shall not be back till to-morrow at dusk. I shall lock the door so you cannot get out. Clean the place and have supper ready for me when I come back." She took her broomstick and bound on it the double number of elastic bags, perched her cat at the other end, mounted it astride, and with an "Abracadabra," she was gone.

The next night at dusk she returned again with the bags full of water.

"Ha! ha! I stole it," said she to Jill. "A bag here, and a bag there. They won't like it when they wake up to-morrow and find they have no water to wash in and precious little water to drink." She ground her iron teeth together and laughed again.

As before, Jill had to take the bags down to the vault, empty them in the casks, and get a further supply of bags for the next day. And so it went on for a year and a day.

At the end of that time the numberless casks in the vault were all full; the last to be filled being those labelled "Drinking-water Possible," and "Reservoirs Old Fruity."

On the last evening the old Witch was in high spirits. "You have worked well, my pretty dear," she said to Jill. "Go home now and enjoy yourself," and she approached Jill as if to kiss her. But Jill fled out of the door and through the gate-posts on to the hill outside.

She had never been outside the Witch's cottage since the day she came, but she had often thought of the village street as she had seen it last—cool and green and shady, with the babbling stream and chattering ducks at the foot of the hill.

When she got outside the fence she stopped suddenly.

What had happened to the village?

It looked brown and baked and dusty. The sun was intolerably hot. There was not a field to be seen, nothing but a wide dreary desert of sand stretching on either side of the sun-baked houses. A few rotting stumps by the roadside told where once the shady trees had been. As Jill went slowly down the hill she looked into the little dried-up yards that had once been gardens. Oh, how dusty it was! The stream had disappeared, some bleaching bones told of the poor ducks' fate.

"Oh, I am thirsty!" said Jill as she went on down the hill to her own cottage.

A dirty, thin, brown-skinned, weak-looking boy was lying in the porch.

"Jill," he said feebly.

"Is that you, Jack?"

"Yes, have you brought us any water?"

"Me, no; I was just going to ask you for a drink. I am so thirsty."

Jack smiled feebly. "There isn't any," he said.

Jill went indoors. A dirty table-cloth was spread on the dusty table.

"Ugh!" she said, coming out again, "isn't there any milk?"

"No," said Jack. "You see there is no grass for the cows. Where's the water gone?" he cried, raising himself from his chair, "that's what I want to know. I wish it would rain. My word, wouldn't I hang my tongue out to catch the raindrops," and he sank back again exhausted.

"The water?" said Jill, suddenly realising what that year with the old Witch had meant. "Why the old Witch has got it all! Her casks are full of it! But she will never let us have it back again."

"Then we must go and fetch it," said Jack with a sudden burst of energy. "You must come and show me where it is."

"Let us go at once," said Jill, "while the Witch is out. I know the spell to open the doors. We must take a pail to put the water in."

So she went into the dusty, dirty kitchen and found a pail, and then she and Jack set off to climb the glaring village street.

They passed some of the villagers. They all looked as brown and dirty and thin as Jack.

"Where are you going?" they called after the children.

"To fetch a pail of water," answered Jack.

Poor Jack was so thin and tired, and Jill so hot and thirsty that they were forced to stop many times on their way up the hill.

At last they reached the Witch's cottage.

"Abracadabra," called out Jill, and they both entered the house through the window with the pail between them.

"Come along," said Jill, "she may come in at any minute." So they ran to the corner of the kitchen.

"Lift up the floor
And open door,"

cried Jill, and they went down the steps.

Jack was so tired that he could hardly stand, but when he saw the casks he clapped his hands.

"Quick," he cried, "Abracadabra!"

"What have you done?" called out Jill the next minute. "You said Abracadabra to the thunder-storm cask. They will all be surging out in a minute! Oh, dear! oh, dear! See, this is the drinking-water cask.

"Abracadabra!"

The lid slid open.

She dipped the pail in. "You must not stop to drink now," she said. "Come quickly before the thunder-storms pour out." And without thinking what she was doing, she ran back, past all the casks, saying, "Abracadabra," as quickly as ever she could. Then, with the full pail in her hand, she stumbled up the steps, and Jack after her. She did not wait to shut the trap-door, but ran out of the house half-way down the hill.

Jack tottered after her.

"I must have a drink," he said.

He caught hold of the handle of the pail, and was about to dip in his head when——

Flash! flash! across the sky came the lightning, and then a deafening roar of thunder.

"It's the old Witch!" he cried, dropping the handle of the pail again.

"It's the thunder-storms tumbling out of the cask," said Jill, letting go of her side of the pail too.

They started to run on home, but Jack caught his foot in the handle of the pail as it rolled down the hill. He fell headlong, cutting his head on a stone in the pathway. Jill tried to stop, but somehow got entangled with Jack's feet, and fell headlong too.

All the while the lightning was flashing and the thunder roaring overhead, and then, splash! splash! great drops of rain came pouring down upon them.

How it rained! It splashed down in torrents! Streams and streams of it! Drop after drop, shower after shower, storm after storm.

"I must have opened all the casks at once," said Jill.

Jack lay still where he was, he did not heed his broken head or his drenched clothes.

"Oh, how good the rain is," was all he said.

When, at last, the rain did leave off, those who went to see, found that the old Witch's cottage had been quite washed away. Nothing remained to show where once it had been but one or two rotting casks, and a worn-out elastic bag. The old Witch herself was never seen or heard of in the village again, but she is probably still wandering about somewhere. So don't be too anxious for the rain to leave off, in case she should hear you, and come and steal all your water!

LITTLE MISS MUFFET

"Cowards are cruel
But the brave
Have mercy, and delight to save"

Little Miss Muffet,
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey.
There came a big spider,
And sat down beside her,
Which frightened Miss Muffet away.

Of course if Miss Muffet had been just an ordinary little girl, she would not have been afraid of spiders! But she wasn't an ordinary little girl at all, she was a little fairy girl, which just makes all the difference. That is why she is always known as "little" Miss Muffet, because she was so very small, and spiders did seem to her so very large; and that is why she is always called "Miss" Muffet, because fairy girls only have sur-names, just as if they were grown-ups!

It was really extremely awkward that Miss Muffet was so afraid of spiders, and of the Spider in particular, because, you see, the one thing a fairy cannot be is a coward. If a fairy once does a cowardly act, unless he or she immediately makes it right by doing a brave one, he or she will become a mortal at once. And think how dull it would be to become a mere mortal, when you have been used to flying, or dancing, or appearing in dreams, or granting wishes, or doing one of the hundred and one exciting things that fairies do!

Miss Muffet lived under a gooseberry bush just outside the farm-house door, and the Spider lived in the barn opposite, and there was a fine tuft of grass in between, where they sometimes met. The farm people knew all about fairies, and on Midsummer Eve always put out a bowl of curds and whey for Miss Muffet in the true old-fashioned style. Miss Muffet always hoped that the Spider would not see it and get there first. Oh, Miss Muffet was certainly very much afraid of the Spider!

She was quite sure he had a hundred legs, whereas he had only eight; quite sure that he was as big as a house, whereas he wasn't as big as your little finger; and quite sure that he spent his life lying in wait to eat her up, whereas he was far too busy about his own affairs ever to think about her at all!

It was on one particular Midsummer Eve that Miss Muffet had her great adventure with the Spider.

It was a beautiful moonlight night. Miss Muffet crept out from under the gooseberry bush, and flew across to the tuft of grass. Yes, there was the bowl of curds and whey as usual. It had never been forgotten ever since Miss Muffet had come to live under the gooseberry bush.

Miss Muffet tripped up to the bowl, and began to sip the contents, thinking all the while how glad she was that she was not a mortal, when——

Plop!

Out of the barn dropped the Spider, close down beside her.

"Can you tell me where the best dewdrops——" he began. But Miss Muffet only looked once in his direction, and then fled as fast as her wings could carry her.

Trembling, she reached the gooseberry bush, and then, all of a sudden, her wings failed her.

"Oh dear," she cried. "I have run away, and been a coward. If I don't do something very brave at once I shall start turning into a mortal. Oh, I don't want to be an ordinary little girl and be called Molly or Dolly, and have to walk everywhere, and go to school, and put my hair in pig-tails. I must do something brave this minute."

Then her eye fell on the gooseberry bush.

"I know," she said, "I will screw up my courage and kill that spider dead. I will take a thorn from the gooseberry bush to spear him with."

So, with her tiny hands, she broke off a long thorn from the gooseberry bush. Then, feeling very brave indeed, she shouldered the thorn and flew back very slowly to the tuft.

At first she thought the spider had disappeared, as she could not see him anywhere. But, happening to fly over the bowl of curds and whey, she saw that he was lying struggling, in the very middle of it!

At first sight of him Miss Muffet felt all her old terror returning, and had half a mind to fly away again. But then she remembered that she had come to do a brave deed, and she held her big thorn tighter, and forced herself to look at the Spider as he struggled in the curds and whey.

"That will make it easier," she said, as she balanced herself on the rim of the bowl. "He will not be able to fly away when I start to stab him," and she poised the thorn all ready for a vigorous thrust.

The Spider looked up at her.

"Gracious lady," he began humbly. "Can you direct me as to the best way out of this pond?"

Miss Muffet was so astonished at being addressed so humbly and so politely by such a formidable person as the Spider, that she lowered her spear-point in order to look at him more closely.

"Gracious lady," began the Spider again. "I beg you will show me the way to get out of this pond soon. I have eight hours more work to do to-night before my task is done."

"Work!" said Miss Muffet, almost to herself. "Do you do any work?"

"Toil and spin, toil and spin, year in, year out," said the Spider sadly. "It is my masterpiece that I am finishing to-night,—a woven counterpane, light as air, threaded with sparkling dewdrops. I was just going out to fetch a few more, and thought there might be some in this pond; but it is a sticky pond, and I fell in, and now I cannot get out again."

"Well, of all the idiots!" began Miss Muffet. "Of course you won't find dewdrops in there," she continued hastily. "But tell me some more about your work?"

So the Spider, still struggling in the curds and whey, told on. How he helped the gardener by eating up the flies; how day and night he toiled and spun, making and weaving carpets and counterpanes from silken threads that he himself spun out of nothing. "It was my masterpiece I was to finish to-night," he said again at the end.

All the while he was talking a great struggle was going on in Miss Muffet's mind.

She raised the thorn again.

"I came here to kill him. I shall be a coward and turn into a mortal if I don't kill him," she said to herself. "But if I kill him he will never finish his masterpiece. Supposing I don't kill him after all, but help him out, then he can finish his work and be happy." She looked at him again and shuddered.

"Oh, if I help him out he will eat me!" she cried. "I will be brave and kill him."

So she shouldered the thorn, and poised herself once more upon the edge of the bowl.

The Spider was still struggling, but more feebly, and Miss Muffet could hear him muttering to himself, "Grey, threaded with silver and sparkling dewdrops, oh, my masterpiece!"

"No!" she said, flinging the spear down on the tuft behind her. "I can't kill him. What does it matter if I turn into a mortal. I have never done any work or made a masterpiece. Let him eat me if he likes. I will save him!"

"Here!" she said in a louder voice. "Give me one of your feet, and I will pull you out."

"Ugh! how ugly he is," she continued to herself, as the Spider drew nearer and lifted up one of his feet. She knelt down on the brim, and stretching out her tiny hands seized the foot, and pulled him slowly up the side of the bowl.

"Now he'll eat me!" she thought, as he stood for a moment shaking himself on the edge.

But no, without a word he was gone, scuttling straight off to the barn as fast as he could run. Was it possible that he was afraid of her!

Miss Muffet looked round. Behind her on the ground lay the big thorn with which she had set out to kill the Spider.

"I wonder it I have been a coward to spare him after all," she said as she flew home. "Anyway, I shall know to-morrow morning. Perhaps this is the last fly I shall ever have, and when I wake up to-morrow I shall be just an ordinary little girl with no wings, and a serge frock and pigtails." And murmuring "Coward, coward, I shall be an ordinary little girl to-morrow!" she fell asleep.

But when she woke up to-morrow morning she found she was a fairy still—wings and all; and moreover she found spread over her the daintiest and most beautiful counterpane in the world, made of grey threads woven with silver and diamented with dewdrops all glistening and quivering in the morning sunlight. It was indeed a masterpiece!

"Look what a lovely spider's web there is under the gooseberry bush!" said the farmer's little girl, when she came to fetch the empty bowl of curds and whey that morning.

PUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT

"The man who loses his opportunity loses himself"

Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?"
I've been to London to visit the Queen."
Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?"
I frightened a little mouse under her chair."

You would never think to look at Thomas now, as he lies blinking in front of the fire, that he once had the chance of being King of England!

To us, Thomas only looks like an ordinary, sleek, well-fed, tabby cat. But then, you see, you don't know Thomas' Private History. Thomas himself is usually too sleepy to think about his early adventures now, but time was, when the mere mention of the Queen's name, would start him off purring at the thought of what might have been!

It was a long time ago, when Thomas was just emerging from the kitten stage, that his Private History really began. It started one evening when mother was reading the children the story of the White Cat in front of the nursery fire before they went to bed. Thomas, who had been more than usually frisky all day, was taking a little repose on the hearthrug, and as the story was about a cat, had condescended to listen.

You all know the story—how the White Cat, though in the form of a cat, was really a princess, and how she married the prince, and changed back into a princess at last.

Thomas listened enthralled, and from the moment the story ended, his Private History began.

For, at the close of the story, Thomas had quite come to the conclusion that he, too, was no ordinary cat. No! As the White Cat in the story was really a princess, Thomas was now convinced that he was really a prince, and only waiting to marry a princess, or better still, a Queen, to show himself in his true guise.

It was soon after this idea entered his head that Thomas became almost intolerable.

The airs he assumed! The graces he put on! The arts he practised! The condescension of his smile! The upward tilt of his nose! The twirl of his moustachios! The defiant angle of his tail!

He began, also, to exercise his voice at night. "Practising serenades," was how he described it to the stable cat, for whom he had the utmost contempt, though he was not above showing off his fine person in front of her now and then.

It was about this time, too, that Thomas started on a long series of nightly prowls. "Quests of adventure," was how he described them. He also developed a habit of strolling in about breakfast time, and listening to Papa reading aloud the morning paper; but it was only in the Court news that he really took any interest. From this he gathered that it was in London that the Queen lived, and he became filled with a burning desire to go to London. Accordingly he made himself more than usually agreeable to the family, in the hopes that they would take him with them when they paid their yearly visit to town.

All this, of course, was Thomas' Private History at this time. To the family he was only known as "an excellent mouser," and "so good with the children."

This troubled Thomas not a little.

It also troubled him that he was so exceedingly fond of mice.

He far preferred them to milk, which was a much more princely diet. Once, even, the idea just crossed his mind, that, as he was so fond of mice, perhaps he wasn't a prince after all, but only an ordinary tabby cat. This thought he thrust from him with a flick of his tail.

"Just wait till I get to London," he said to himself. "When the Queen sees me she will at once recognise me for what I am," and he twitched his nose contemptuously at the stable cat who was just crossing the yard.

The next day the family went up to London. Thomas, to his great delight, was taken too. "He is such an excellent mouser," Papa had said, and the children, "Oh we can't leave Thomas, he is such a darling."

This had annoyed Thomas, and hurt his dignity. So, just before starting, he went out to say good-bye to the stable cat.

"Good-bye," he said. "I don't suppose you will see me again, or if you do, I don't suppose you will recognise me. I am going up to London to marry the Queen."

The stable cat expressed no surprise at this remarkable statement. She merely winked her yellow eyes and answered nothing.

"I suppose she thinks I am too fine to be spoken to by such as she!" said Thomas to himself as he stalked away.

The journey up to London was certainly not a success as far as Thomas was concerned.

He was put in a basket. This he considered undignified, as well as uncomfortable, and he took no pains to conceal his feelings. He scratched and spluttered at the side of the basket, and uttered his opinion of the family with no uncertain voice. But nobody paid any attention to him.

"Very well," he cried at last. "When I am King of England you won't put me in a basket any more. The next time I go on a journey, it will be in a coach and four."

Then he started thinking of how many mice he had caught last week, and this thought comforted him so much that he curled round and went to sleep for the rest of the journey.

The evening after they arrived, one of the young ladies of the family was to go and see the Queen. Thomas privately decided to go with her.

He did not tell her he was coming too.

"Though, of course, if she knew I was her future King, she would be only too delighted to be going with me," he thought. "All the same, I think I will go quite quietly without any fuss, there will be plenty of time for that afterwards."

He assisted while the young lady was being dressed. She looked very beautiful, with a long train, and feathers in her hair, and a sheaf of lilies in her arms.

"Just like a fairy princess," thought Thomas.

She went downstairs. Thomas followed her. She got into her carriage. Thomas, concealed by her train, crept in too.

"I thought Thomas got in with me," she said anxiously.

But Thomas hid himself under the seat. When they arrived at the door of the palace, she alighted, and Thomas got out after her.

The crowd was so occupied in gazing at the young lady's beauty that they never looked at Thomas at all.

This annoyed him. He was almost inclined to mew with vexation.

"Never mind," he consoled himself, "she, poor girl, has only this one chance of being looked at, but everyone will always be looking at me when I am King of England," so he refrained from mewing.

The young lady walked in through the folding doors. Thomas followed, still concealed by the folds of her train.

They went along what seemed to Thomas miles and miles of red carpet, and were finally ushered, through a great door, into a great room. Thomas disengaged himself from the young lady's train and sniffed, just to show that he was quite at home.

That sniff was fatal, for he scented a mouse somewhere!

The room was hung with red and gold, and surrounded with glittering mirrors. There was a rustle of silks and satins. On every side were court lords and ladies dressed in all their gorgeous splendour. Fans fluttered, feathers nodded, diamonds sparkled in all directions. Over all floated a strain of delicious dreamy music. At the end of the long room, up six red-carpeted steps was the Queen's golden chair of state. On it sat the Queen herself, smiling graciously. She was dressed in white and blazing with jewels, and she had a crown of gold upon her head.

It was Thomas' great opportunity! Who knows but that if he had walked sedately up to the Queen and asked her hand in marriage that she might not have consented, and then he might have turned into a Prince, and been King of England! Yes, it was certainly Thomas' opportunity.

That fatal sniff!

He never saw the splendid room. He never saw the beautiful ladies and the gorgeous dresses. Worse than all, he never saw the Queen herself at all. All thoughts of being a Prince had flown out of his head. As though he had been bewitched, he had only one idea.

There was a mouse somewhere!

He was no longer Thomas the Prince in Disguise, he was only Thomas "the good mouser."

He crept forward cautiously, sniffing as he went, and slid noiselessly up to the Queen's great chair. Yes, there was the mouse peeping out from behind one of the golden legs. Thomas sprang forward.

"What is that cat doing here?" called out the Queen. "Send him out of the room immediately."

A dozen hands were stretched forward to seize the unfortunate Thomas. He saw the mouse run like a dart towards a hole in the wall. He dashed after it.

Then ensued such a hue and cry as never was seen. People rushed here, and rushed there, and stepped on each other's toes, and tore each other's gowns. Several ladies fainted, and everyone hurried in pursuit of Thomas.

He ran this way and that, and turned and twisted himself in every direction. At last he found himself near the door, and slipped out with the whole crowd after him. He ran and ran till he had outdistanced them all, and even then he still ran on from mere fright.

It was a very draggled and dishevelled Thomas that appeared next morning at the stable door of his old home in the country.

"Hm, I thought so," said the old stable cat when she at last recognised him. "Cat you were born, and cat you will remain all the rest of your days. King of England indeed!"

Thomas has no Private History now.

HEY, DIDDLE, DIDDLE!

"Live merrily"

Hey, diddle, diddle!
The Cat and the Fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed to see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon.

Once upon a time in a large white farm-house upon an open moor there lived a Wizard.

As you know, wizards work very hard; and about once a year, usually towards the middle of March, they take a holiday—and then very extraordinary things happen.

One March night this particular Wizard set off upon his holiday as usual.

Before he went he looked round to see that everything was tidy and in its place. Yes, there was the Cat dozing in front of the fire. The Fiddle was standing upright in a corner of the room. The Dish was on the dresser and the Spoon in the basket. The little Dog was guarding the door outside. The Cow was lying by the cow-tub in the yard. All looked peaceful and in order.

So the Wizard put all his magic into his tall black hat, shut the door, and went out.

When he had passed through the farmyard gate he locked and bolted it behind him. But the lock was very stiff, and in turning and pulling out the key, his black hat got pushed on one side, so that a little of the magic escaped, and filtered back through the keyhole.

The Wizard, without stopping to think what might happen, pulled his hat straight, and went off into the wide world to enjoy his holiday.

The little bit of magic floated slowly in through the farm-yard gate; over the Cow by the cow-tub; over the little Dog guarding the door; through the keyhole of the door; over the Cat dozing in front of the fire; into the corner where stood the Fiddle; into the basket where lay the Spoon; and finally rested on the Dish on the dresser shelf. The Dish yawned, steadied himself, slowly dismounted from the dresser, and balanced himself on the kitchen table.

"Spoon, my love," he said wearily.

"Yes, my sweet," answered the Spoon, tripping out of the basket on to the table beside him.

"I can make love as well as that, and better," said the Cow, poking her head through the kitchen window.

"Here we are again!" said the little Dog, bursting in through the door.

The Cat and Fiddle bowed and scraped to each other in the corner.

"Hey, diddle, diddle! The Dog has no manners," squeaked the Fiddle.

"No, indeed," said the Cat, politely.

"Spoon, my love," began the Dish again, "what a miserable life we lead. Laid down to do the same old things over and over again. Though twice a day your elegant figure approaches mine, and I see myself reflected in your shining countenance, yet have I never a chance of telling you how much I admire you. We have never any opportunity for amusement, or private conversation. Though you do occasionally scrape me, just to show me how much you love me. Yet, oh my Spoon, that is not enough. I am weary, oh my Spoon, of being laid on a dresser or a table. I loathe that my beautiful form should be covered with gravy or soapy water. Oh, my Spoon, in these few hours that are before us, let us forget our miserable and monotonous existence. Let us show the world that we can twirl and spin with the best of them. Let us dance, my love, let us dance, and," he continued, pursing his lips, and lowering his voice to a whisper, "when the fun is at its highest, let us run away from here altogether, and get married and live happily ever after," and he twirled round on his edge, just to show what he could do.

"Yours is a delightful plan, my sweet!" said the Spoon. "You are indeed a lordly Dish," and she simpered charmingly.

"I could think of as good a plan as that and a better," bellowed the Cow through the window. "I could think of a plan as big as the sky."

"What's the odds, so long as we're happy!" chortled the little Dog.

"Hey, diddle, diddle! how vulgar he is!" squeaked the Fiddle.

"I quite agree with you," said the Cat, politely.

"Spoon, my love," began the Dish once more, "shall we ask the Cat and Fiddle to sing and play for us, while we dance?"

"Certainly, my sweet," said the Spoon, and added coyly, "I am sure if you asked them, they could refuse you nothing."

"I can sing and play as well as they can and better," bawled the Cow again through the window. "My top notes reach the stars."

"You may all sing and play till you're hoarse for all I care!" said the little Dog.

"Hey, diddle, diddle! don't let's pay any attention to him," squeaked the Fiddle.

"But we may as well oblige the others," said the Cat.

So the Cat and the Fiddle struck up a lively tune in which they each strove as to who would squeak the highest. The Dish and the Spoon danced and klinked blissfully together on the centre of the kitchen table.

As the music got louder and louder, and wilder and wilder, the little Dog joined in the dance, and at last even the Cow tossed up her four legs and started dancing too.

"Spoon, my love, see how high I can spring," said the Dish, coming down on the table with such a thud that he nearly cracked from top to bottom. "When I do that again," he added in a lower voice, "it will be the signal for you to run away with me. What a night we are having!" and he twirled round faster than ever.

"Yes, my sweet," answered the Spoon, "everything that you do is right. Wherever you run I will run too. I would that I could spring as high as you do," and she turned gracefully on her handle.

"I can jump as high as that and higher," roared the Cow through the window. "I can jump over the moon."

"All right, old girl, do it then," said the little Dog, skipping out into the yard, when the moon was shining in all her splendour, and reflected round and bright in the cow-tub.

"Hey, diddle, diddle!" squeaked the Fiddle, louder and more contemptuously than ever.

"Me-ow!" shrieked the Cat on an even higher note. They played and sang more vigorously than before.

"Over the moon you go!" shouted the little Dog to the Cow.

She tossed up her heels, and springing high into the air jumped over the cow-tub, wherein shone the moon's reflection as round and bright as the moon itself. The little Dog nearly split his sides with laughing. "Ha! ha! ha! that's a good joke," he said. "You had me there nicely," and he and the Cow started jumping about together all over the yard.

The Cat and the Fiddle squeaked louder.

The Cow and the little Dog jigged higher and higher. Never was heard such a noise!

The Dish jumped off the table with a thud.

"Spoon, my love," he whispered, "the moment has arrived. The little Dog has left the door open. Fly with me."

There was such a hullaballoo going on that nobody except the Spoon heard what he said. He seized her round her elegant waist and danced away with her, through the open door, and across the farm-yard.

They were just wondering how they should get out of the gate, when——

Snip! Snap! Snorum!

There stood the Wizard just outside!

The Dish and the Spoon looked guiltily at each other, but they could not stop dancing.

"What is all this noise!" cried out the Wizard angrily.

The little Dog and the Cow heard his voice in the yard. They, too, looked guiltily at each other, but they could not stop dancing.

"What are you all about!" cried the Wizard again, still more angrily.

The Cat and the Fiddle heard his angry voice through the open door. They, too, looked guiltily at each other, but they could not stop playing or singing.

Then the Wizard lost his temper altogether. "Pouf!" he said, flinging back his head, so that his hat fell off, and the magic went rolling about all over the place.

"Pouf! Is this the way you behave when I am not here. Can't you stop that disgraceful noise! Pouf!! I will get rid of the whole lot of you!"

He raised his foot and gave the farm-yard gate one tremendous kick.

It was a magic kick.

Before you would have had time to say "Snip! Snap! Snorum!" the whole farm, Cat, Fiddle, Dog, Cow, Dish, Spoon and all, went flying sky high into the air.

Even then they could not leave off dancing and singing.

"Spoon, my love!" sobbed the Dish, "I wish I was sitting down on the dresser again.

"Yes, my sweet," panted the Spoon.

"I can breathe as well as you and better!" puffed the Cow.

"Whew-w-w," whistled the little Dog.

"Hey, diddle, diddle," sniffed the Fiddle.

"Yes, we are all quite breathless," gasped the Cat.

But still they went swirling on.

Up, up, they flew, dancing and singing all the time. The music sounded fainter and fainter as they mounted higher and higher into the sky, but their forms were still quite plainly visible.

What a pity it was that the Wizard had forgotten all about that little bit of magic that had filtered in through the keyhole, for now they were doomed to go on singing and dancing for ever.

A long time has gone by from that day to this, but they have never ceased to swirl along up there in the sky. They have been in the glare of the sun now for so many years that they are bleached quite white, and their outlines are blurred and indistinct. Yet, if you look carefully enough, you will see them all—Cat, Fiddle, Cow, little Dog, Dish and Spoon, and even bits of the farm-house too—for they are always sailing along somewhere, high up above our heads.