“It’s absurd,” she said, “perfectly absurd!” She stamped her foot, and yet she was smiling a little.  “I told him I would bestow upon Margery anything he could possibly think of that she lacked.  That any quality of mind or heart, any beauty, any charm that a girl could desire, should be hers as a gift.  I assured him that there was nothing I could not and would not do for her.  And what do you think?  He listened quite attentively and politely—­oh, Max has nice manners—­and then he looked me straight in the eyes and ’Thank you very much,’ he said; ’it’s most awfully kind of you.  I hope you won’t think me ungrateful, but I’m afraid I can’t help you at all.  There’s nothing—­nothing.  Margery—­well, you see, Margery’s perfect.’  I was so annoyed with him that I came away without saying another word.  And now I’m no further than I was before as regards Margery.  Mortals really are very stupid.  It’s most vexing.”

She paused a minute, then suddenly she looked up and flashed a smile at me.  “All the same it was rather darling of him, wasn’t it?” she said.

I nodded.  “I wonder ...,” I began.

“Yes?” interjected the Queen eagerly.

“...  I wonder whether you could give her that, just that for always?”

“What do you mean?” said the Queen.

“I mean,” I said slowly, “the gift of remaining perfect for ever in his eyes.”

The Queen looked at me thoughtfully.  “He’ll think I’m not giving her anything,” she objected.

“Never mind,” I said, “she’ll know.”

The Queen nodded.  “Yes,” she said meditatively, “rather nice—­rather nice.  Thank you very much.  I’ll think about it.  Good-bye.”  She was gone.

R.F.

* * * * *

    “On Monday evening an employee of the ——­ Railway Loco.  Department
    dislocated his jaw while yawning.”—­Local Paper.

It is expected that the company will disclaim liability for the accident, on the ground that he was yawning in his own time.

* * * * *

NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.

          THE CENTIPEDE.

  The centipede is not quite nice;
  He lives in idleness and vice;
      He has a hundred legs;
  He also has a hundred wives,
  And each of these, if she survives,
      Has just a hundred eggs;
  And that’s the reason if you pick
  Up any boulder, stone or brick
      You nearly always find
  A swarm of centipedes concealed;
  They scatter far across the field,
      But one remains behind. 
  And you may reckon then, my son,
  That not alone that luckless one
      Lies pitiful and torn,
  But millions more of either sex—­
  100 multiplied by x—­
      Will never now be born. 
  I daresay it will make you sick,
  But so does all Arithmetic.