"It would have spoiled the music-box, And ruined all our books-- Knocked holes in all our woolen socks, And ruined thus their looks. "'T would have destroyed our chandeliers, To dough turned all our pie; And, worst of all, my little dears, It would have injured I." "Is that dreadful enough?" asked the laureate, turning to the king. "It suits me," said the king. "But perhaps our friend Jimmieboy would like to have it made a little more dreadful." "In that case," said the laureate, "I can compose a few more verses in which the blast makes the tennis-court over us cave in and bury all the cake and jam we have in the larder, or if he thinks that too much to sacrifice, and would like a little pleasure mixed in with the terribleness, the cod-liver oil bottle might be destroyed." "I wouldn't spoil the cake and jam," said Jimmieboy's voice, in reply to this. "But the cod-liver oil might go." "Very well," said the laureate, and then he bowed low again and sang: "But there is balm for our annoy, For next the blast doth spoil Six hundred quarts--O joy! O joy!-- Of vile cod-liver oil." "I should think you would have liked that," said Jimmieboy's voice. "I would have," said the king, "because you know the law of this country requires the king to consume a bottle of cod-liver oil every day, and if the bottles were all broken, perhaps the law, too, would have been crushed out of existence. But, after all, I'd rather be king with cod-liver oil than have my kingdom ruined and do without it. How would you like to see our gardens?" "Very much," said Jimmieboy. "I'm fond of flowers." The king laughed. "What a droll idea," he said, turning to the laureate. "The idea of flowers growing in gardens! Write me a rhyme on the drollness of the idea." The laureate sighed. It was evident that he was getting tired of composing verses to order. "I hear and obey," he replied, shortly, and then he recited as follows: "To think of wasting: any time In raising flowers, I think, Is worse than writing nonsense-rhyme, Or frying purple ink. "It's queerer really than the act Of painting sword-fish green; Or sailing down a cataract To please a magazine. "Indeed, it really seems to me, Who now am very old, The drollest bit of drollery That ever has been drolled." "But what do you raise in your gardens?" asked Jimmieboy, as the laureate completed his composition. "Nothing, of course," said the king. "What's a garden for, anyhow? Pleasure, isn't it?" "Yes," said Jimmieboy's voice, "but----" "There isn't any but about it," said the king. "If a garden is for pleasure it must not be worked in. Business and pleasure are two very different things, and you cannot raise flowers without working." "But how do you get pleasure out of a garden when you don't raise anything in it?" "Aren't you dull!" ejaculated the king. "Write me a quatrain on his dullness, O laureate."