The Cozy Lion: As Told by Queen Crosspatch

I flew outside his ear and boxed it a little.

"Come!" I said. "Crying won't do you any good. Are you really lonely – really – really – really so that it gives you a hollow feeling?"

He sat up and shook his tears away so that they splashed all about – something like rain.

"Yes," he answered, "to tell the truth I am – I do like Society. I want friends and neighbors – and I don't only want them for dessert, I am a sociable Lion and am affectionate in my nature – and clinging. And people run as fast as they can the moment they hear my voice." And he quite choked with the lump in his throat.

"Well," I snapped, "what else do you expect?" That overcame him and he broke into another sob. "I expect kindness," he said, "and invitations to afternoon teas – and g–g–arden parties – "

"Well you won't get them," I interrupted, "If you don't change your ways. If you eat afternoon teas and garden parties as though they were lettuce sandwiches, you can't expect to be invited to them. So you may as well go back to the desert or the jungle and live with Lions and give up Society altogether."

"But ever since I was a little tiny Lion – a tiny, tiny one – I have wanted to get into Society. I will change – I will! Just tell me what to do. And do sit on my ear and talk down it and stroke it. It feels so comfortable and friendly."

You see he had forgotten that he had meant to chew me up. So I began to give him advice.

"The first things you will have to do will be to change your temper and your heart and your diet, and stop growling and roaring when you are not pleased.'

"I'll do that, I'll do that," he said ever so quickly. "You don't want me to cut my mane and tail off, do you?"

"No. You are a handsome Lion and beauty is much admired." Then I snuggled quite close up to his ear and said down it, "Did you ever think how nice a Lion would be if – if he were much nicer?"

"N–no," he faltered.

"Did you ever think how like a great big cozy lovely dog you are? And how nice your big fluffy mane would be for little girls and boys to cuddle in, and how they could play with you and pat you and hug you and go to sleep with their heads on your shoulder and love you and adore you – if you only lived on Breakfast Foods and things – and had a really sweet disposition?"

He must have been rather a nice Lion because that minute he began to look "kind of smiley round the mouth and teary round the lashes" – which is part of a piece of poetry I once read.

"Oh! Aunt Maria!" he exclaimed a little slangily. "I never thought of that: it would be nice."

"A Lion could be the coziest thing in the world – if he would," I went on.

He jumped up in the air and danced and kicked his hind legs for joy.

"Could he! Could he! Could he?" he shouted out. "Oh! let me be a Cozy Lion! Let me be a Cozy Lion! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! I would like it better than being invited to Buckingham Palace!"

"Little children would just flock to see you and play with you," I said. "And then if they came, their mothers and fathers couldn't be kept away. They would flock too."

The smile of joy that spread over his face actually reached his ears and almost shook me off.

"That would be Society!" he grinned.

"The very best!" I answered. "Children who are real darlings, and not imitations, come first, and then mothers and fathers – the rest just straggle along anywhere."

"When could it begin? When could it begin?" he panted out.

"Not," I said very firmly, "until you have tried some Breakfast Food!"

"Where shall I get it? Oh! Where? Oh! Where?"

"I will get it, of course," was my answer.

Then I stood up on the very tip of his ear and put my tiny golden trumpet to my lips. (And Oh! how that Lion did roll up his eyes to try to catch a glimpse of me!) And I played this tune to call my Fairy Workers:

I'm calling from the Huge Green Hill,
Tira–lira–lira,
The Lion's Cave is cool and still.
Tira–lira–lira.

The Lion wishes to improve
And show he's filled with tender love
And not with Next Door Neighbor.
The Lion wishes to be good.
To fill him full of Breakfast Food
Will aid him in his labor.

Bring Breakfast Food from far and near
– He'll eat a dreadful lot I fear.
Oh! Tira–lira–lira–la
And Tira–lira–ladi.

A Lion learning to be good
Needs Everybody's Breakfast Food.
You workers bring it – Tira–la
And Tira–lira–ladi.

Then the Fairy Workers came flying in clouds. In three minutes and three quarters they were swarming all over the Huge Green Hill and into the Lion's Cave, every one of them with a little sack on his green back. They swarmed here and they swarmed there. Some were cooks and brought tiny pots and kettles and stoves and they began to cook Breakfast Foods as fast as lightning. The Lion sat up. (I forgot to say that he had turned un–pale long before this and was the right color again.) And his mouth fell wide open, just with surprise and amazement. What amazed him most was that one out of all those thousands of little Workers in their green caps and smocks was the least bit afraid of him. Why, what do you think! My little Skip just jumped up and stood on the end of the Lion's nose while he asked me a question. You never saw anything as funny as that Lion looking down the bridge of his nose at him until he squinted awfully. He was so interested in him.

"Does he take it with sugar and cream, your Royal Silver–cross–bell–ness?" Skip asked me, taking off his green cap and bowing low.

"Try him with it in both ways," I said.

When the Workers had made a whole lot of all the kinds together they poured it into a hollow stone and covered it with sugar and cream.

"Ready, your Highnesses!" they all called out in chorus.

"Is that it?" said the Lion. "It looks very nice. How does one eat it? Must I bite it?"

"Dear me, no," I answered. "Lap it."

So he began. If you'll believe me, he simply reveled in it. He ate and ate and ate, and lapped and lapped and lapped and he did not stop until the hollow stone was quite clean and empty and his sides were quite swelled and puffed out. And he looked as pleased as Punch.

"I never ate anything nicer in my life," he said. "There was a Sunday School picnic I once went to."

"A Sunday School picnic!" I shouted so fiercely that he blushed all over. The very tuft on his tail was deep rose color. "Who invited you?"

He hung his head and stammered.

"I was not exactly invited," he said, "and didn't go with the school to the picnic grounds – but I should have come back with it – at least some of it – but for some men with guns!"