One morning the Emperor Fuss of Fizz sat on the front porch of his palace rocking impatiently back and forth. Evidently he was waiting for somebody. By and by when he had rocked so many times his rocking chair was beginning to squeak, the royal necromancer, Wist the Wise, an aged gentleman wearing a gorgeous gown of office, came hurrying up the royal avenue. "Ha!" exclaimed the Emperor, "so you've come at last, have you? It's lucky for you that I'm a good natured monarch." "I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting, your majesty," replied the necromancer, bowing low, "but the commander-in-chief of your army had a toothache, and I had to wish the tooth out for him and believe me, it was some job." "Well," said the Emperor, "you have a harder job than that before you. My son, Prince Frip, has been reading about desert islands and insists on having one at once to discover. So get to work, for as you know whatever Frip wants he wants with all his might." Alas, Wist the Wise knew it only too well. A good part of his time he was kept busy exercising his magic arts to provide amusement for Prince Frip, who was a very lively young person, and who got tired of a thing almost as soon as he got it. As a consequence the wizard had often wished he might get rid of the boy forever, for he was afraid that some day Frip would ask for something he would be unable to give him, for even a magician has his limits. So this time the royal necromancer was determined to fix the Prince so he would not bother him any more. "Did you say an island, your majesty?" he inquired of the Emperor. "I did," replied the monarch, "and a desert island, too, with plenty of strange and wonderful things on it to interest a boy. I want to keep Frip busy this time." "So do I," said the wizard, grimly. "But as you know, your majesty, the kingdom of Fizz is far inland, and desert islands are only found in the sea. If you want desert islands, you must go where desert islands bloom." "Oh, I must, must I?" retorted the Emperor, angrily. "Whom do you think you're talking to? You have that desert island ready for Frip to play with to-morrow morning, or I'll have you made into an Irish stew." The royal necromancer shuddered. "Well," he said, "I'll do my best, but whether you stew me or not, I simply cannot provide an out and out, really true island. At the best it will only be an imaginary one. Will that do?" "I don't care what it is," said the monarch, "so long as the Prince can lose himself on it for a while and not bother me."