"The first things you will have to do will be to change your temper and your heart and your diet, and stop growling and roaring when you are not pleased.'
"I'll do that, I'll do that," he said ever so quickly. "You don't want me to cut my mane and tail off, do you?"
"No. You are a handsome Lion and beauty is much admired." Then I snuggled quite close up to his ear and said down it, "Did you ever think how nice a Lion would be if—if he were much nicer?"
"N–no," he faltered.
"Did you ever think how like a great big cozy lovely dog you are? And how nice your big fluffy mane would be for little girls and boys to cuddle in, and how they could play with you and pat you and hug you and go to sleep with their heads on your shoulder and love you and adore you—if you only lived on Breakfast Foods and things— and had a really sweet disposition?"
He must have been rather a nice Lion because that minute he began to look "kind of smiley round the mouth and teary round the lashes"—which is part of a piece of poetry I once read.
"Oh! Aunt Maria!" he exclaimed a little slangily. "I never thought of that: it would be nice."
"A Lion could be the coziest thing in the world—if he would," I went on.
He jumped up in the air and danced and kicked his hind legs for joy.
"Could he! Could he! Could he?" he shouted out. "Oh! let me be a Cozy Lion! Let me be a Cozy Lion! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! I would like it better than being invited to Buckingham Palace!"