I HAVE said the Princess Irene was about eight years old when my
story
begins. And this is how it begins.
One very wet day, when the mountain was covered with mist which
was
constantly gathering itself together into rain-drops, and pouring down
on the roofs of the great old house, whence it fell in a fringe of water
from the eaves all round about it, the princess could not of course go
out. She got very tired, so tired that even her toys could no longer
amuse her. You would wonder at that if I had time to describe to you
one
half of the toys she had. But then you wouldn't have the toys
themselves, and that makes all the difference: you can't get tired of a
thing before you have it. It was a picture, though, worth seeing--the
princess sitting in the nursery with the sky-ceiling over her head, at a
great table covered with her toys. If the artist would like to draw
this, I should advise him not to meddle with the toys. I am afraid of
attempting to describe them, and I think he had better not try to draw
them. He had better not. He can do a thousand things I can't, but I
don't think he could draw those toys. No man could better make the
princess herself than he could, though--leaning with her back bowed
into
Madhuri Noah
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