"I didn't quite understand what it was you said you were," said the sprite, bending forward as if to hear better. "At the beginning of my story I was a souvenir spoon," returned the major. "Did you begin your career as a spoon?" asked the sprite. "I did not, sir," replied the major. "I began my career as a nugget in a lead mine where I was found by the king of whom I have just spoken, and on his return home with me he gave me to his wife who sent me out to a lead smith's and had me made over into a souvenir spoon--and a mighty handsome spoon I was too. I had a poem engraved on me that said: 'Aka majo te roo li sah, Pe mink y rali mis tebah.' Rather pretty thought, don't you think so?" added the major as he completed the couplet. "Very!" said the sprite, with a knowing shake of his head. "Well, I don't understand it at all," said Jimmieboy. "Ask this native of Twinkleville what it means," observed the major with a snicker. "He says it's a pretty thought, so of course he understands it--though I assure you I don't, for it doesn't mean anything. I made it up, this very minute." The sprite colored deeply. It was quite evident that he had fallen into the trap the major had set for him. "I was only fooling," he said, with a sickly attempt at a smile. "Go on with your story." "I think perhaps the happiest time of my life was during the hundreds of years that I existed in the royal museum as a spoon," resumed the major. "I was brought into use only on state occasions. When the King of Mangapore gave a state banquet to other kings in the neighborhood I was the spoon that was used to ladle out the royal broth." Here the major paused to smack his lips, and then a small tear appeared in one corner of his eye and trickled slowly down the side of his nose. "I always weep," he said, as soon as he could speak, "when I think of that broth. Here is what it was made of: 'Seven pies of sweetest mince, Then a ripe and mellow quince, Then a quart of tea. Then a pint of cinnamon, Next a roasted apple, done Brown as brown can be. Add of orange juice, a gill, And a sugared daffodil, Then a yellow yam. Sixty-seven strawberries Should be added then to these, And a pot of jam. Mix with maple syrup and Let it in the ice-box stand Till it's good and cold-- Throw a box of raisins in, Stir it well--just make it spin-- Till it looks like gold.' Oh, my!" cried the major. "What a dish it was, and I, I used to be dipped into a tureen full of it sixteen times at every royal feast, and before the war we had royal feasts on an average of three times a day." "Three royal banquets a day?" cried Jimmieboy, his mouth watering to think of it. "Yes," returned the major. "Three a day until the unhappy war broke out which destroyed all my happiness, and resulted in the downfall of sixty-four kings."