(A Fairy Tale for Christmas.)
The Lady Help was busy at her domestic duties when her Godmother knocked at the kitchen-door, and entered.
"Alas, poor CINDERELLA!" said the Fairy, in a compassionate tone, "and so your stepmother and sisters have gone to the Prince's ball, and left you to cleanse the pots and pans?"
"Thank you," returned her God-daughter; "I am perfectly well satisfied to be left with my books. As a matter of fact, dances bore me."
And she carelessly glanced at some mathematical works that she had used when cramming for the Senior Wranglership.
"Nonsense, my dear," responded the well-intentioned Fairy, "Get me a pumpkin, some mice—"
"Quite out of date," interrupted CINDERELLA. "I presume you intend to turn the pumpkin into a great coach, and so forth. Eh?"
"Well," admitted the Fairy, taken aback, "ye-es."
"Quite so. Believe me, the idea is distinctly old-fashioned. Pray understand, I don't say you can't do it. Nowadays, with EDISON and KOCH, it would be dangerous to suggest that anything was impossible. No, I merely object to travel in a conveyance that will naturally be redolent of the odours of the kitchen garden, and to be driven by a coachman derived from a rodent."
"But this objection is contrary to precedent," urged the Fairy. "You ought to express unbounded delight, and then depart in your carriage with the greatest éclat possible."