“Muzzer, shall I ever grow up to be a king?”
“No, my son; little boys like you are never kings.”
“Not if I’m very good, and do what I’m told?”
“No, dear, not even then. No one can be a king unless his father is a king, too, or some very, very great man. What has put that in your head, I wonder? Why do you want to be a king?”
Pat widened his clear grey eyes; the afternoon sunshine shone on his ruffled head, turning his curls to gold, until he looked like some exquisite cherub, too good and beautiful for this wicked world.
“’Cause if I was a king I could take people prisoners and cut off their heads, and stick them upon posts,” he said sweetly; his mother and aunt exchanged horrified glances. Pat alternated between moods of angelic tenderness, when every tiger was a “good, good tiger,” and naughty children “never did it any more,” and a condition of frank cannibalism, when he literally wallowed in atrocities. His mother forbode to lecture, but judiciously turned the conversation.
“Kings can do much nicer things than that, Patsy boy. Our kind King Edward doesn’t like cutting off heads a bit. He is always trying to prevent men from fighting with each other.”
“Is he?”
“Yes, he is. People call him the Peace-maker, because he prevents so many wars.”
“Bother him!” cried Pat fervently.