“Oh, muffins mellow light and clear, Fit diet for a mountaineer; Oh, muffins pale and yellow! Oh, muffins sweet to sniff and eat, How you refresh a—a—” The poet’s merry blue eyes grew round and puzzled, as they always did when he forgot a word. “Fellow!” chuckled the Peer, taking a sip of coffee. “Percy, my child, you are ridiculish!” “I am ridiculish, I know it; A young, a poor forgetful—er” “Poet!” spluttered Peer Haps, with another chuckle. “Thanks old Nutmeg!” sighed Percy, helping himself to another muffin. “You always know what I mean.” “_Nut_ Meg!” roared Peer Haps. He never got over being amused at Percy’s informal way of addressing him. “_Nut_ Meg! Well, I’ll be grated!” And immediately he was, for at that very moment, the folding doors flew open and in rushed Abrog the prophet. “Greater than all other Rulers in Oz, great of the greatest!” began the old man, salaaming before Peer Haps, “a great misfortune threatens, approaches, is about to take place.” “What?” cried the Peer, choking on the last bit of his muffin. It was strange enough to have Abrog speak at all when it was not the day for prophecy, but to have him speak in this foreboding fashion was simply too terrible. “Speak out! Speak up!” cried the Forgetful Poet, leaping to his feet: “Speak out, speak up And then get hence, We cannot stand this dire— this dire, this dire—” “Suspense,” finished Peer Haps automatically. “Yes, speak up, fellow!” he cried anxiously. “In four days, a monster will marry the Princess!” wailed Abrog, pulling his peaked cap down over his eyes. “In four days, four days, four days!” And having said this, he began to gallop ’round the breakfast table, Peer Haps and the Forgetful Poet right after him. You, yourself, can imagine the effect of such a message on the merry old Peer of Perhaps City. Why, he prized the little Princess above all his possessions, yes, even above his yellow hen who was a brick layer and laid gold bricks instead of eggs. Indeed, she had done more than anyone else to lay the foundation of his fortune. “What kind of a m-monster?” stuttered the Forgetful Poet, waving his muffin. “Where is my daughter now?” demanded Peer Haps, seizing Abrog by the whiskers, for there seemed no other way of stopping him. Abrog waved feebly toward the window and, rushing across the room, the Peer and the poet stared out into the garden where the sweetest little Princess in all the countries of the East was gathering roses. She waved gaily to the two in the window, and, with a shudder, Peer Haps turned back to Abrog.