The Missing Prince

The little Prince and the Royal Nurse were conducted up the grand staircase, the Prince turning around to Boy and saying, “Good-night, little Boy, I’m sleepy tired now, but I shall see you to-morrow,” while Boy and One-and-Nine were led in another direction to a suite of rooms overlooking a beautiful garden. Here they were served with a bountiful supper by a Footman, who had been set apart to wait upon them only. His name, Boy found out, was Cæsar Maximilian Augustus Claudius Smith, but he was called Thomas for short. Thomas was a very nice man, Boy thought, and although he seemed to think a great deal of himself he was very kind to them.

After they had finished supper and Thomas had cleared away the supper things, Boy noticed that One-and-Nine seemed very quiet.

“Is there anything the matter?” he asked anxiously.

“I am afraid,” remarked One-and-Nine sadly, “that she will never condescentionise to affectionate me.”

“Who?” exclaimed Boy.

“That majestuous lady, the Royal Nurse,” said One-and-Nine, sighing sentimentally.

“You don’t mean to say that you have fallen in love with her, surely?” said Boy, feeling greatly inclined to laugh.

“Who could help it?” declared the Wooden Soldier. “I am completely smot!”

“Smot! What’s that?” asked Boy.

“Smite, smitten, smot,” exclaimed One-and-Nine.

“And what a charmaceous name, too,” he continued – “Martha Matilda Nimpky. How lovelyish! Do you think she cares for me even a smallish bit?”

“Well, I’m afraid she scarcely saw you, you know,” said Boy. “Perhaps she will when she knows you better,” he added, wishing to comfort the poor lovesick soldier.

“Do you think it would be wise to send her a love-letter?” asked One-and-Nine anxiously, “or an Ode,” he suggested, brightening up. “Yes, I’ll write her an Ode – that’s what I’ll do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite know what an Ode is,” admitted Boy; “but I suppose it won’t do any harm to send it.”

“Oh, an Ode is a kind of Poemish letter that people send when they are in love. I’ve Oded before,” said One-and-Nine, giggling foolishly.

“What shall you say?” inquired Boy.

“Well, let me see,” said One-and-Nine. “In Oding a lady you have to think of what you most admire in her, and take that as your subject. The last time I Oded, you know, it was about Miss Dolly-girl’s eyes. It began thusly:

“‘The Rose is red, the Violet’s blue,
But neither have such eyes as you.
Yours are the kind I most admire;
They shut and open with a wire.’

Miss Dolly-girl told me she was much flatterated by the complimentation.”

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation at this point, and on Boy’s calling out “Come in,” to their great surprise His Absolute Nothingness the Public Rhymester entered. He was weeping, and carried an enormous pocket-handkerchief, which he put to his eyes every now and then.

“I heard that you were greatly in favour with the young Prince,” he began, in a broken voice, “and thought I would ask you if you would kindly try and have me restored to my position as Court Poet again. I assure you I am not really half as bad as they tried to make out at the Committee Meeting this morning. The fact of the matter was I had just received a great shock, and it had driven all the poetry out of my head. Just as I was starting in the morning my wife told me that the cook had left and the man had called for the taxes. It was enough to upset any one, wasn’t it?”

“Well,” said Boy, who was a kind-hearted little fellow, “I don’t know that we can do much for you, but I will certainly speak to the Prince on your behalf to-morrow if you wish.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you very much, sir,” said the Public Rhymester, brightening up at once, and vainly trying to stuff his handkerchief, which was quite as large as a small table-cloth, into his pocket. “And if I can ever do anything for you, write you a Valentine, you know, or your Epitaph, I shall be only too delighted.” One-and-Nine, who had been sitting bolt upright while this conversation was going on, seemed to be suddenly-struck with a bright inspiration.

“Are you an Oder?” he asked abruptly of the Public Rhymester.

“An Oder?” repeated he vaguely. “What’s that?”

“A person who writes Odes, of course,” replied the Wooden Soldier; “because, if you are, I should be greatly obligated if you would kindly write one for me. I intentionized writing it myself, but I have been considerizing that it would be more properish to have it written by a real Poet.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you!” cried the Public Rhymester gratefully, “it is very kind indeed of you to say that. A poor Poet, you know, gets very little praise from any one nowadays, especially a Minor one, such as I am. Why, a Grand Old Statesman said the other day – but there, I mustn’t let you into State Secrets. What is the subject upon which you wish me to write?”

“Oh, – a – a – lady,” said One-and-Nine bashfully, blushing up to the roots of his green paint.

“Of course,” said the Public Rhymester smilingly; “it usually is.”

“And particularly about er – er – a – the corkscrew curls, you know,” said One-and-Nine, stammering nervously. “Such delightfulish fascinationizing curls – six on each side, you know – and they woggle when she shakes her head – oh, dearest, dearest Martha Matilda,” and the poor Wooden Soldier seemed quite overcome by his emotions.

“Ah! these military men, these military men,” said the Public Rhymester, shaking his head, “what susceptible creatures they are, to be sure, always in love with some fair one or other! But there, we must do the best we can for him, I suppose. What is the lady’s name?” he inquired.

“Mrs. Martha Matilda Nimpky,” replied One-and-Nine faintly.

“What! the Royal Nurse?” exclaimed the Public Rhymester in surprise.

The Wooden Soldier nodded his head.

“Well, I hope you’ll win her,” said the Public Rhymester, “though I think it’s only fair to warn you that you must expect to have a great many rivals. Don’t you see,” he went on, “being Nurse to the little King, she is sure to have immense influence over him, and so will be one of the most important people in the kingdom. Oh, she’s sure to have no end of suitors; however, you are first in the field, and a handsome military man like yourself ought to stand a good chance. Now don’t speak to me for a few moments while I write the poem for you.”

The Wooden Soldier and Boy sat perfectly still while the Public Rhymester took a note-book and pencil from his pocket and began to walk rapidly up and down the apartment, pausing now and then to jot something down in his book, and occasionally clutching his hair and rolling his eyes about violently. Once Boy sneezed, and the Public Rhymester glared at him fiercely and then told him that he had entirely driven a beautiful word which might have rhymed with cucumber out of his head, and he would have to alter the whole verse. At last, however, the poem was finished and the Public Rhymester proudly read as follows: —

TO MRS. M. M. N

“Oh, Martha most majestic,
Matilda quite sublime,
For thee I’d do the bravest deeds,
Most giddy heights would climb.

“Oh! almond rock’s delicious,
And so is clotted cream,
And Birthday Cake is not so bad;
But these things tasteless seem;

“For I have seen Matilda,
And other joys have fled,
Her dazzling beauty’s vanquished me,
And turned my wooden head.

“I love thee, dear Matilda,
Far more than other girls,
For there’s not one amongst them all
That wears such corkscrew curls.

“Such lovely little corkscrew curls,
Just six on either side,
That woggle when you shake your head —