m. However, the money he obtained
in this way enabled him to buy the Queen her flock of sheep, as well as
many of the other things which go to make life pleasant, so that they
never once regretted their lost kingdom. Now it happened that the Fairy
of the Beech-Woods lived in the lovely valley to which chance had led
the poor fugitives, and it was she who had, in pity for their forlorn
condition, sent the King such good luck to his fishing, and generally
taken them under her protection. This she was all the more inclined to
do as she loved children, and little Prince Featherhead, who never
cried and grew prettier day by day, quite won her heart. She made the
acquaintance of the King and the Queen without at first letting them
know that she was a fairy, and they soon took a great fancy to her, and
even trusted her with the precious Prince, whom she carried off to her
palace, where she regaled him with cakes and tarts and every other good
thing. This was the way she chose of making him fond of her; but
afterwards, as he grew older, she spared no pains in educating and
training him as a prince should be trained. But unfortunately, in spite
of all her care, he grew so vain and frivolous that he quitted his
peaceful country life in disgust, and rushed eagerly after all the
foolish gaieties of the neighbouring town, where his handsome face and
charming manners speedily made him popular. The King and Queen deeply
regretted this alteration in their son, but did not know how to mend
matters, since the good old Fairy had made him so self-willed.

[Illustration]

Just at this time the Fairy of the Beech-Woods received a visit from an
old friend of hers called Saradine, who rushed into her house so
breathless with rage that she could hardly speak.

'Dear, dear! what _is_ the matter?' said the Fairy of the Beech-Woods
soothingly.

'The matter!' cried Saradine. 'You shall soon hear all about it. You
know that, not content with endowing Celandine, Princess of the Summer
Islands, with everything she could desire to make her charming, I
actually took the trouble to bring her up myself; and now what does she
do but come to me with more coaxings and caresses than usual to beg a
favour. And what do you suppose this favour turns out to be--when I have
been cajoled, into promising to grant it? Nothing more nor less than a
request that I will take back all my gifts--"since," says my young
madam, "if I have the good fortune to please you, h