“‘Then, not far from Mount Vesuvius it seemed, we barely succeeded in passing over such gigantic mountains that their tops are forever covered in snow—white, cold and unutterably still. Yet, even as we gazed, dumb-struck with the wonder of it all, there came the sun’s great rays, and, magically, gloriously, turned the snow to gold—to gleaming gold, mountains of gold! “‘Southward and Eastward then we went! Over the burning plains of India, past the Taj Mahal, that mighty monument to woman’s love and virtue, and to the memory of a great Prince; southward to Ceylon, set within the circling seas, and then, rapidly over the ocean back to Australia, where, glad to see and smell the Eucalypts again, down I fell to do them service! “‘As to why I fall, it is because that is the only way in which I can do my share of the things that must be done. My chief duty is to nurture and refresh everything that grows; and as that can best be accomplished by falling on or about them, therefore that is the thing I do.’” When this story was completed, there suddenly broke out such a hum of conversation that it was quite a little time before the Prince was able to announce that, by special request, the Official Recorder had consented to give a contribution towards the evening’s entertainment. And this is what he said:— THE DOOR MAT’S STORY “Once upon a time, a long while ago, I met a wandering Scribe who told me how he had once heard a Door Mat and a Bass Broom talking to each other. Strange as it may seem, they appear to have made many shrewd observations, and, put into rhyme, this is the gist of what the Scribe said:— This is the tale of the front Door Mat, And this is the pith of his learning: He who aspires as a brave man should; She who desires what a sweet maid would; Must, ere they rise in the World’s affairs, Learn that the prizes they seek are theirs, If they, in the struggle with carks and cares, Keep Sweet! Clean their feet! And leave behind them the grit of the street! This is the story he told his friend, His friend, the Broom— The Big, Bass Broom, Who never was known to enter a Room, But swept and scrubbed Until he was dubbed The terror of Drains and Greasy Stains, The Garden Paths and the Clothes Yard! This is his narrative, word for word, Just as he rendered it; overheard Up near the door, where the Fairy Scribe Wrote it all down for his own wee tribe; And, so he said, to the Town next day Took it to print; but I grieve to say That not ’till now has it seen the light! But, as you know, in the Town’s poor plight, Things are o’erlooked both by night and day, And thus, I learn, went the ‘proofs’ astray! So, not till now has the tale been told: Just as I give it you, true as gold! Keep sweet! Mind your feet! And bring not in the grime of the street!