eart is good. She pets him and calls him
pretty names. All of a sudden he grows bigger and longer: his wings
change into two arms. He turns into a boy, and Fanny recognizes Antony
the gardener's little boy, who says to her: "Let's come and play
together."

[Illustration: SHE JUMPS OUT OF BED IN HER NIGHTGOWN, OPENS THE WINDOW,
AND THERE IN THE GARDEN, AMONG THE ROSES AND GERANIUMS AND MORNING
GLORIES, ARE THE LITTLE BIRD BEGGARS, THE LITTLE MUSICIANS OF LAST
NIGHT, SITTING IN A ROW ON THE GARDEN FENCE AND GIVING HER A MORNING
SONG TO PAY FOR THEIR CRUMBS OF BREAD.

_Printed in France_]

She claps her hands with joy and starts to go--then suddenly wakes up.
She rubs her eyes. No sparrow, no Antony! She is alone in the little
room. The dawn, shining through the little flowered curtain, spreads its
innocent light on the bed. She hears the birds singing in the garden.
She jumps out of bed in her nightgown, opens the window, and there in
the garden, among the roses and geraniums and morning glories, are the
little bird beggars, the little musicians of last night, sitting in a
row on the fence rail and giving her a morning song to pay for their
crumbs of bread.

[Illustration]

THE FANCY DRESS PARTY

[Illustration]

Here are little boys like knights of old, and little girls who are
heroines. Here are shepherdesses with dresses looped up in paniers and
garlands of roses, and shepherds in satin suits with knots of ribbons on
their shepherd's crooks. Dear me, what pretty white sheep such shepherds
must have in their flocks! And here are Alexander and Zarius, Pyerhus
and Merope, Mahomet, Harlequin, Scapin, Blaise and Babette. They have
come from everywhere, from Greece and Rome and blue distant countries,
to dance with one another. It's a fine thing, a fancy dress ball, and
very agreeable for an hour or two to be a great king or an illustrious
princess. It has no inconveniences. You have not to sustain your
costumes by actions or even by your words.

It would not be very amusing to wear a hero's dress if you had to show
his courage too. The hearts of heroes are torn in all sorts of ways. For
the most part they are famous through their misfortunes. If any of
them lived happily they are not remembered now. Merope never cared about
dancing. Pyerhus was wickedly killed by Orestes just as he was going to
be married, and the innocent Zarius perished at the hands of the Turk
his friend, a philosophical trick indeed. A