bow lighted up the darkened nursery
as, around the witch-like caldron, they watched their opportunity to
snatch the lucky raisin. The room rang so loudly with fun and laughter
that even the King himself, big of head and rickety of legs, shambled in
good-humouredly to join in the sport that was giving so much pleasure to
the royal boy he so dearly loved, and whom he always called "Baby
Charles."

But what was snapdragon, you ask? A simple enough game, but dear for
many and many a year to English children. A broad and shallow bowl or
dish half-filled with blazing brandy, at the bottom of which lay
numerous toothsome raisins--a rare tidbit in those days--and one of
these, pierced with a gold button, was known as the "lucky raisin."
Then, as the flaming brandy flickered and darted from the yawning bowl,
even as did the flaming poison tongues of the cruel dragon that St.
George of England conquered so valiantly, each one of the revellers
sought to snatch a raisin from the burning bowl without singe or scar.
And he who drew out the lucky raisin was winner and champion, and could
claim a boon or reward for his superior skill. Rather a dangerous game,
perhaps it seems, but folks were rough players in those old days and
laughed at a burn or a bruise, taking them as part of the fun.

So around Master Sandy's Snapdragon danced the royal children, and even
the King himself condescended to dip his royal hands in the flames,
while Archie Armstrong the jester cried out: "Now fair and softly,
brother Jamie, fair and softly, man. There's ne'er a plum in all that
plucking so worth the burning as there was in Signor Guy Fawkes'
snapdragon when ye proved not to be his lucky raisin." For King's
jesters were privileged characters in the old days, and jolly Archie
Armstrong could joke with the King on this Guy Fawkes scare as none
other dared.

And still no one brought out the lucky raisin, though the Princess
Elizabeth's fair arm was scorched and good Master Sandy's peaked beard
was singed, and my Lord Montacute had dropped his signet ring in the
fiery dragon's mouth, and even His Gracious Majesty the King was nursing
one of his royal fingers.

But just as through the parted arras came young Henry, Prince of Wales,
little Prince Charles gave a boyish shout of triumph.

"Hey, huzzoy!" he cried, "'tis mine, 'tis mine! Look, Archie; see, dear
dad; I have the lucky raisin! A boon, good folk; a boon for me!" And the
excited lad held aloft t