"There must be some mistake. Who can truly say that I have found Contentment here?"
Meanwhile the second son had borrowed a camel and gone off with his precious automaton to the great city, there to reap the reward of his labours. All the way he reckoned how he could best enjoy the vast sums of gold which would be poured into his lap. And he came to the conclusion that to gaze at it would give more pleasure than to spend any of it, except just a little for coffers to keep it in. He laughed aloud in anticipation. Arrived at his journey's end, he unpacked his treasure and set it working, and was forthwith lodged in prison—for the city turned out to be as narrow-minded as it was great, and it assured him that he must be a wizard. He assured it he wasn't, and proved that he didn't believe in fairy tales, for he had not relied upon them for help. But it was of no avail; there was nothing more to be said. This disappointing ending to so much effort and such real success encouraged him in the conviction that in the position in which he found himself he could find no legitimate ground for Contentment.
During this time the favourite son had sallied forth singing in search of the beauteous Princess. His marvellous kite was slung behind him. He wended his steps toward the only Court he knew of, where dwelt a Princess good, beautiful, and unmarried—a combination of charms of marked rarity. So joyous and merry was he, that the squirrels squeaked and scurried away at sight of him, and the very hyenas laughed in harmony as he passed by singing, "Tra-la-la!" in his blithe lightsomeness. Ah, how gladsome and thrice happy was that merry, merry morn!
Now the Princess sat in the vast hall of the palace turning up her nose at the stream of suitors that promenaded in front of her, very bored and weary at the continuous routine. But she never seemed to tire of it in her certainty that "the right one" would put in his appearance at the right moment.
She was a very spoilt lady indeed; there was no one to gainsay her. Indeed, so spoilt was she, that every night she would cry for the stars, and blame the skies for being selfish and not sparing her a few when they knew (for she had often told them) that she wished to wear them in her hair. And every one said how illogical it was of her, and no one told her they were too large for practical purposes.
One bitterly cold night, whilst she was sitting thus at her open casement, bemoaning the selfishness of the skies, and heedless of everything else, a mighty hubbub arose outside.
"What ho!" called the pretty Princess. Her attendants came tumbling in to her in their eagerness to answer her summons.
"What's without?" she inquired.
Nobody knew, and tumbled out to get to know. They rushed back and told her all at once that a brand new suitor had arrived at that unusual hour, and would she snub him at once or tarry till the morrow? It took her a little time to unravel what was said amidst such a babel of voices.
"La! Oh my!" suddenly exclaimed the Princess, her eyes riveted outside on the blackness of the night. She could scarcely believe her senses, for there, in her garden, stars were actually falling down in showers, lighting up the figure of a man who, with upstretched hand, was beckoning them to come!