For some ridiculous reason, to which, however, I've no desire to be disloyal, Some person in authority, I don't know who, very likely the Astronomer Royal, Has decided that, although for such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty, One year in every four his days shall be reckoned as nine and- twenty. Through some singular coincidence— I shouldn't be surprised if it were owing to the agency of an ill-natured fairy— You are the victim of this clumsy arrangement, having been born in leap-year, on the twenty-ninth of February; And so, by a simple arithmetical process, you'll easily discover, That though you've lived twenty-one years, yet, if we go by birthdays, you're only five and a little bit over! RUTH: Ha! ha! ha! ha! KING: Ho! ho! ho! ho! FREDERIC: Dear me! Let's see! (counting on fingers) Yes, yes; with yours my figures do agree! ALL: Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! ho! FREDERIC: (more amused than any) How quaint the ways of Paradox! At common sense she gaily mocks! Though counting in the usual way, Years twenty-one I've been alive, Yet, reck'ning by my natal day, Yet, reck'ning by my natal day, I am a little boy of five! RUTH/KING: He is a little boy of five! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ALL: A paradox, a paradox, A most ingenious paradox! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!, etc. (RUTH and KING throw themselves back on seats, exhausted with laughter)