ck, shall we?" And
nothing the King could say would make them see any other side to the
question. Indeed, as the Queen pointed out to him, if he had not
allowed the people to keep so many bees it might never have happened at
all. So the end of it was, that the Queen stayed with the King; and
Honey and Sunny were married that very same day and went back to live
in the village without a name. And there they built a very small house
in a very big garden, and they planted it with rows of chocolate trees,
and rows of acid-drop bushes, and lots of almond rockeries; and the
fairies came and filled it with flowers from Fairyland that had no
names at all, but were the most beautiful flowers that any one has ever
seen, for they never faded or died but just changed into something else
when they were tired of being the same flower.

So no wonder that Honey and Sunny were happy for ever and ever!

[Illustration: "COME WITH ME, POET," SAID THE LITTLE PRINCESS]

The Little Princess and the Poet

There was once a Poet whom nobody wanted. Wherever he went, he was
always in the way; and the reason for this was his inability to do
anything useful. All the people in all the countries through which he
passed seemed to be occupied in making something,--either war, or
noise, or money, or confusion; but the Poet could make nothing except
love, and that, of course, was of no use at all. Even the women, who
might otherwise have welcomed him, could not endure the ugliness of his
features; and, indeed, it would have been difficult to find a face with
less beauty in it, for he looked as if all the cares and the annoyances
of the world had been imprinted on his countenance and left it seared
with lines. So the poor, ugly Poet went from place to place, singing
poems to which nobody listened, and offering sympathy to people who
could not even understand his language.

One day he came to a city he had never visited before; and, as he
always did, he went straight to the part where the poorer people lived,
for it was all about them that he wrote the poetry to which nobody
listened. But, as usual, the poor people were so full of their
troubles that they could not even understand him.

"What is the use of telling us we are unhappy?" they grumbled. "We
know that already, and it does not interest us a bit. Can you not do
something for us?"

The Poet only shook his head.

"If I did," he replied, "I should probably do it very ba