being
fairy-blessed, kept on being lucky. The rainbow bubble flew before; he
blew strongly, wisely; it soared high, high, and all things prospered.
His kingdom increased, his treasure-bags were filled with gold. By and
by the little palace grew too small for them, or they fancied it so, and
another was built, a real palace this time, with lawns, and fish-ponds,
and graperies, and gardens. The only trouble was--

But here come the children downstairs, so I must drop into plain prose,
and tell you what already you have guessed, that the Prince I mean is
their father, John Frisbie,--Prince John, if you like,--and the
Princess's name was Mary Jones before she was married, but now, of
course, it is Mary Frisbie. There were five of the princelings,--Jack
and May and Arthur and Lulu and Bertha. The new palace was a beautiful
house, with wide, lovely grounds. But since they came to live in it,
Mrs. Frisbie had taken it into her head that so fine a house required
manners to match, and that the things the children liked best, and had
been allowed to do in the small house, were vulgar, and might not be
permitted now. This was a real trouble to the little ones, for, as their
mother said, they were "clear Frisbie all through;" and the thrift,
energy, cleverness, and other qualities by which their father had made
his fortune, were strong in them. Perhaps the Fairy had visited their
cradles also. Who knows?

The girls came down crisp and fresh in their ruffled frocks, with curls
smoothed, sashes tied, and their company dolls in their hands.

"Now sit down and be comfortable," said Mrs. Frisbie.

Dear me, what a number of meanings there are to that word "comfortable"!
Mrs. Frisbie thought it meant pretty clothes, pretty rooms, and nothing
to do. To the boys it took the form of hard, hearty work of some sort.
Papa understood it as a cool day in his office, business brisk, but not
too brisk, and an occasional cigar. May, Lulu, and Bertha would have
translated it thus: "our old ginghams and our own way;" while Dinah, if
asked, would have defined "comfort" as having the kitchen "clar'd up"
after a successful bake, and being free to sit down, darn stockings, and
read the "Illustrated Pirate's Manual," a newspaper she much affected on
account of the blood-thirstiness of its pictures. None of these various
explanations of the word mean the same thing, you see. And the drollest
part is that no one can ever be made "comfortable" in any way b