Once upon a time,
           so long ago
             that I
                  have quite forgotten the date,
         there lived a king
               and queen
             who had no children.

    And the king
          said to himself,
         "All the queens
               of my acquaintance
              have children,
               some three,
             some seven,
               and some
                   as many as twelve;
            and my queen
                has not one.

    I feel ill-used."

    So he made up
           his mind to be
         cross with
               his wife about it.

    But she bore
           it all
              like a good patient queen
                   as she was.

    Then the king
        grew very cross indeed.

    But the queen
          pretended to take it all
               as a joke,
           and a
               very good one too.

    "Why don't you
          have any daughters,
           at least?"

    said he.

    "I don't say sons;
        that might be
               too much to expect."

    "I am sure,
           dear king,
         I am very sorry,"
              said the queen.

    "So you ought to be,"
          retorted the king;
            "you are not
                  going to make a virtue
                       of that,
               surely."

    But he
        was not an ill-tempered king,
           and in any
              matter of less moment
            would have let the queen
                  have her own way
                       with all his heart.

    This,
           however,
         was an affair of state.

    The queen smiled.

    "You must have patience
           with a lady,
         you know,
         dear king," said she.

    She was,
           indeed,
         a very nice queen,
           and heartily sorry
             that she
                could not
                      oblige the king immediately.
 
  2. Won't I, Just?

    The king tried
          to have patience,
           but he succeeded very badly.

    It was more than
         he deserved,
           therefore,
         when,
           at last,
         the queen
            gave him a daughter
          --as lovely a little princess
               as ever cried.

    The day drew near
         when the infant
            must be christened.

    The king
        wrote all the invitations
               with his own hand.

    Of course somebody was forgotten.

    Now it
        does not generally matter
         if somebody is forgotten,
           only you must mind who.

    Unfortunately,
           the king forgot
             without intending to forget;
        and so the chance
            fell upon the Princess Makemnoit,
           which was awkward.

    For the princess
        was the king's own sister;
           and he
            ought not
                  to have forgotten her.

    But she
        had made herself so disagreeable
               to the old king,
           their father,
         that he
            had forgotten her
                   in making his will;
        and so it
            was no wonder
             that her brother
                forgot her
                       in writing his invitations.

    But poor relations
          don't do anything
              to keep you
                   in mind of them.

    Why don't they?

    The king
        could not
              see into the garret
         she lived in,
           could he?

    She was a sour,
           spiteful creature.

    The wrinkles of contempt
          crossed the wrinkles of peevishness,
           and made her face
               as full of wrinkles
             as a pat of butter.

    If ever a king
        could be
              justified in forgetting anybody,
           this king
            was justified
                   in forgetting his sister,
         even at a christening.

    She looked very odd,
           too.

    Her forehead
        was as large
               as all the rest
                   of her face,
           and projected over it
              like a precipice.

    When she was angry,
           her little eyes flashed blue.

    When she hated anybody,
           they shone yellow and green.

    What they looked like