"We will have games," said Judy, "and we won't have anything old like
'Cinderella.' Has anybody got an idea?"
She and Anne and Launcelot were in the Judge's garden, and it was Thursday evening, and there wasn't a great deal of time to get ready for Saturday's festivities.
"We might have some one read poems, and have living pictures to illustrate them," suggested Anne.
"What poems?" asked Judy, not quite sure that she liked the idea.
"There are some lovely things in Tennyson," said the little girl; "there's the Sleeping Beauty for one. You could be the Beauty, Judy, and Launcelot could be the prince—it would be just lovely—we could have little Jimmie Jones for the page, and Nannie and Amelia for ladies-in-waiting, and you could be asleep on the couch, while some one read:
"Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,
The maiden's jet-black hair has grown."
Anne quoted with ease, for the little blue and gold volume in her bookcase had yielded up its treasures to her, and she knew the loved verses better than she knew her "Mother Goose."
"Oh," Judy's eyes were alight, "how lovely that is—I never read that,
Anne."
"Well, you hate books, you know," and Anne dimpled at her retort.
"I shouldn't hate that kind," and Judy resolved that she would know more about that princess.