watching with languid gaze the movements of the world
about him.

And the world just where he lived was very beautiful. On a fertile
plain, surrounded by mountain-peaks of great height, threaded by silver
streams, and so well watered that its vegetation was almost tropical,
was the estate of Leo's father, Prince Morpheus Lazybones. It had been
in the family for ages, and was so rich in timber and mineral resources
that none of its owners had cared to cultivate the land. Timber was cut
sparingly, however, because the market for it was too distant, and the
minerals remained in their native beds for much the same reason.

The family throve, notwithstanding, and were well supplied with all
manner of delicacies, for the servants were many, and there was never a
lack of corn or wine.

Leo was most fair to see. To be sure, his drooping lids half concealed
his azure eyes, and his golden locks sometimes hid his snowy forehead;
but his smile was charming; his face had such an expression of calm
satisfaction, such a patient tranquillity, that his smile was as the
sudden sunshine on a placid lake. It was the smile of the family, an
inherited feature, like the blue hood of a Spanish Don. And then it was
given so freely: the beggar would have preferred it to be accompanied
with the jingle of a coin, but as the coin never came and the smile did,
he tried to think that it warmed his heart, though his wallet went
empty.

There were those who said a smile cost nothing, else it would not have
been bestowed. It had a peculiarity of its own which these same critics
also objected to--it nearly always ended in a yawn.

But Leo heard none of these ill-natured remarks, and, if he had, would
not have minded them any more than he did the burs which clung to his
garments as he rambled through the woods. Poor fellow! he would gladly
have shared his coppers with a beggar, but he had none to share.

Morpheus Lazybones never seemed to think his son required anything; so
long as the boy made no demands, surely nothing could be wanting, and
every one knew _he_ was not equal to any exertion. For years he had
lived the life of an invalid, shut up in his room most of the time,
venturing from it only in the sunniest weather, and then with great
caution. He had no particular malady except that he was a poet, but
surely that was burden enough. To have to endure the common sights and
sounds of this earth when one is composing poetry is indeed a trying a