"You please me, Sir John," remarked the little kinglet, swelling out his chest complacently. "I wish all the people of Phreex were so polite and discerning." Then he looked around and inquired: "Where's Sir Austed Alfrin, the Poet Laureate?"
Immediately a drapery parted, and a man with a pale, thin face and long black hair entered and saluted his Majesty with profound respect. The Poet had a bandage over one eye and hobbled as if lame in one leg. He was clothed all in black, and his long frock coat had grease spots down the front of it.
"Have you made me a sonnet to-day?" demanded the little kinglet.
"Yes, my royal Master," answered the Poet; and, pompously unrolling a scroll, he read in a loud, falsetto voice, these lines:
"There is a wise Kinglet of Phreex,
Whose wit is so great that it leaks;
His brain isn't big,
But who cares a fig
While wisdom from him fairly reeks?"
"Now, that's not so bad," said his Majesty, reflectively. "But can't you make it a little stronger, Sir Poet?"
"I'll try," replied Austed Alfrin; and after pencilling some words on his tablets he read as follows:
"The Goddess of Wisdom felt sad;
And when asked why she whimpered so bad,
Said: 'There's one, it is true,
Who knows more than I do—
And the Kinglet of Phreex is the lad!'"