“You’re crazy, Dick!” said Hester, but Marjorie said, “No, he isn’t crazy; I think there’s a principle there somewhere, but I can’t work it out.”

“I guess you can’t!” said King.  “I give it up.”

“So do I!” declared Tom, and at last they all gave it up.

“Now you must answer it yourself, Dick,” said King.

“Then nobody gets the prize,” objected Sandow.

“No, you keep it yourself.  Have you got one, anyhow?”

“Yes, a nice musical top Uncle John sent to me.  I’ve never used it much, it’s as good as new.  I wish somebody would guess.”

Nobody did, and Dick sighed.

“Bet you can’t answer your old puzzle, yourself,” said Hester.

“Yes, I can,” averred Dick, “but you must ask it to me.”

“All right,” said King.  “Mr. Sandow, honorable and noble courtier of Sand Court, is the number of sea sands odd or even?  Answer truthfully now.”

“I don’t know,” replied Dick, “and that’s the truth!”

How they all laughed!  It was a quibble, of course, but the Maynard children were surprised at themselves that they hadn’t seen through the catch.

Dick sat on the sand, rocking back and forth with laughter.

“The witch ought to have guessed it,” he cried; “or else the Queen ought to.”

“Yes, my courtier, we ought,” Marjorie admitted.  “You caught us fairly, and we hereby give you the post of wizard of this court.  Sand Piper, what’s next in your journal?”

“The next is a poem by the Honorable Edward Maynard.  That is, he wrote part of it, and then, as he had to go to New York on business, his honorable wife finished it.  Here it is: 

    “Royal Courtiers, great and grand,
    Ruling o’er your court of sand,
    Take this greeting from the pen
    Of an humble citizen. 
    May you, each one, learn to be
    Filled with true nobility;
    Gentle, loving, brave, and kind,
    Strong of arm and pure of mind. 
    May you have a lot of fun,
    And look back, when day is done,
    O’er long hours of merry play
    Filled with laughter blithe and gay. 
    May your court of mimic rule
    Teach you lore not learned in school;
    Rule your heart to think no ill,
    Rule your temper and your will.”

“Gee, that’s real poetry, that is!” exclaimed Tom.  “Say, your people are poets, aren’t they?”

“Why, I think they are,” said Marjorie, “but Father says they’re not.”

“I’d like a copy of that poem,” said Hester, looking very serious.

“All right,” said King, catching the witch’s glance.  “I’ll make you a nice typewritten copy of it to-morrow.”

“And now, my royal Sand Piper, is there any more poetic lore for us to listen to?”

“Aye, my liege Queen, there is one more poem.  This is a real poem also, but it is of the humorous variety.  It was composed by the mother of our royal Sand Witch, and was freely contributed to our paper by that estimable lady.  Methinks she mistook our club for a debating club, and yet, perhaps not.  This may be merely a flight of fancy, such as poets are very fond of, I am told.  I will now read Mrs. Corey’s contribution: