'
'I'm an awful example,' sighed Polly, seating herself on a stump in
front of the tent, and elevating a very dusty little common-sense
boot. 'Sir Walter Raleigh would never have allowed me to walk on his
velvet cloak with that boot, would he, girls? Oh, wasn't that
romantic, though? and don't I wish that I had been Queen Elizabeth!'
'You've got the HAIR,' said Laura.
'Thank you! I had forgotten Elizabeth's hair was red; so it was.
This is my court train,' snatching a tablecloth that bung on a hush
near by, and pinning it to her waist in the twinkling of an eye,--
'this my farthingale,' dangling her sun-bonnet from her belt,--'this
my sceptre,' seizing a Japanese umbrella,--'this my crown,' inverting
a bright tin plate upon her curly head. 'She is just alighting from
her chariot, THUS; the courtiers turn pale, THUS; (why don't you do
it?) what shall be done? The Royal Feet must not be wet. "Go round
the puddle? Prit, me Lud, 'Od's body! Forsooth! Certainly not!
Remove the puddle!" she says haughtily to her subjects. They are
just about to do so, when out from behind a neighbouring chaparral
bush stalks a beautiful young prince with coal-black hair and rose-
red cheeks. He wears a rich velvet cloak, glittering with
embroidery. He sees not her crown, her hair outshines it; he sees
not her sceptre, her tiny hand conceals it; he sees naught save the
loathly mud. He strips off his cloak and floats it on the puddle.
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