le beast we found.
So I shook my head, and I glumly said: "Gol darn the saucy cuss!
It's mighty queer, but she isn't here; so . . . she must be on one of us.
You'll pardon me if I make so free, but--there's just one thing to do:
If you'll kindly go for a half a mo' I'll search me garments through."
Then all alone on the shiny throne I stripped from head to heel;
In vain, in vain; it was very plain that I hadn't got Lucille.
So I garbed again, and I told the Prince, and he scratched his august head;
"I suppose if she hasn't selected you, it must be me," he said.
So _he_ retired; but he soon came back, and his features showed distress:
"Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me." . . . Then we looked at the Princess.
So _she_ retired; and we heard a scream, and she opened wide the door;
And her fingers twain were pinched to pain, but a radiant smile she wore:
"It's here," she cries, "our precious prize.
Oh, I found it right away. . . ."
Then I ran to her with a shout of joy, but I choked with a wild dismay.
I clutched the back of the golden throne, and the room began to reel . . .
What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea, but . . . _it wasn't my Lucille_.

After all, I did not celebrate. I sat on the terrace of the Cafe
Napolitain on the Grand Boulevard, half hypnotized by the passing crowd.
And as I sat I fell into conversation with a god-like stranger who
sipped some golden ambrosia. He told me he was an actor and introduced
me to his beverage, which he called a "Suze-Anni". He soon left me, but
the effect of the golden liquid remained, and there came over me a
desire to write. _C'etait plus fort que moi._ So instead of going to
the Folies Bergere I spent all evening in the Omnium Bar near the
Bourse, and wrote the following:

On the Boulevard

Oh, it's pleasant sitting here,
Seeing all the people pass;
You beside your _bock_ of beer,
I behind my _demi-tasse_.
Chatting of no matter what.
You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, it's jolly, is it not?--
Sitting on the Boulevard.

More amusing than a book,
If a chap has eyes to see;
For, no matter where I look,
Stories, stories jump at me.
Moving tales my pen might write;
Poems plain on every face;
Monologues you could recite
With inimitable grace.

(Ah! Imagination's power)
See yon _demi-mondaine_ there,
Idly toying with a flowe