“Listen,” said the Equine Ox, and throwing back his head he sang: THE MELANCHOLY STAR “A foolish little star I knew, quite petulant and peevish grew, And all because he thought he was Compelled to shine unheeded. ‘I know,’ he sighed, ‘that I am small, and so I shouldn’t shine at all; It isn’t fair to keep me where I plainly am not needed.’ “So every night, from dark till dawn, dejectedly he carried on, And pined and sighed and whined and cried In this dyspeptic fashion. In bitterness and discontent his poor defenseless rays he rent, And tore his hair, till sore despair Became his ruling passion. [Illustration: “Listen, said the Equine Ox, and throwing back his head, he sang”] “Of course when one thus falls a prey to melancholy, night and day, And merely moans and mopes and groans, He’ll grow weak-minded from it; And as this star became more blue, and thinking of his sorrows grew Each day more sad, he soon went mad, And turned into a comet. “Now little girls who fancy they are always in grown people’s way, And little chaps who think perhaps They’re not appreciated; Of course will surely never share the fate this starlet had to bear, But still they need perhaps to heed This tale that I’ve related. “For if they do not mind at all because they happen to be small, They soon will see their tasks will be Made wonderfully lighter; And when a child is gay of heart, and always gladly does his part, And never sighs and never cries, He makes the whole world brighter.” “I’ll try not to be sorry any more,” said Billy, when the song was finished. “That’s right,” said the Equine Ox; “and now, if the gentlemen don’t mind, I’d like to go back into the trolley car. It fitted me perfectly, and it was such fun ringing that bell.” “The trolley car’s broke,” said the conductor. “And if it wasn’t I wouldn’t take a chance on having you ring up any more fares.” “Very well,” said the Equine Ox, “then we might as well sit quietly and await the reports of the Meteors. They’ll be coming in very soon now.” But it was not a Meteor who first arrived. It was Jack Frost and Nimbus, coming in from opposite directions almost at the same time. Both had been clear around the world, they said, and neither had seen a sign of the Equator or the Evening Star. “I suppose,” said Billy, when this dismal report was received, “that we ought to notify the Sun.” “I can’t notify him,” said Jack Frost. “He and I are utter strangers.” “I sent the Rays to notify him,” said Nimbus. “But I don’t think it will do any good. He can only travel so fast anyway, not more than a million miles a minute, and that would not do any good.” “What is there to do, then?” inquired Billy disconsolately. Hardly were the words out of his mouth when a Meteor came dashing in among them. “Any news?” asked Jack Frost.