h, he is a little
torn and tattered; he lacks a feather in his tail; he has lost it in
battle--unless it was through some bad fairy of the village. Fanchon has
her suspicions he is a naughty bird. But she is a girl, and she does not
mind her jack-sparrow being a trifle headstrong, if only he has a kind
heart. She pets him and calls him pretty names. Suddenly he begins to
grow bigger; his body gets longer; his wings turn into two arms; he is
a boy, and Fanchon knows who he is--Antoine, the gardener's little lad,
who asks her:

"Shall we go and play together, shall we, Fanchon?"

She claps her hands for joy, and away she goes.... But suddenly she
wakes and rubs her eyes. Her sparrow is gone, and so is Antoine! She is
all alone in her little room. The dawn, peeping in between the flowered
curtains, throws a white, innocent light over her cot. She can hear
the birds singing in the garden. She jumps out of bed in her little
nightgown and opens the window; she looks out into the garden, which
is gay with flowers--roses, geraniums, and convolvulus--and spies her
little pensioners, her little musicians, of yesterday. There they all
sit in a row on the garden-fence, singing her a morning hymn to pay her
for their crumbs of bread.

THE FANCY-DRESS BALL

[Illustration: 177]

HERE we have little boys who are conquering heroes and little girls who
are heroines. Here we have shepherdesses in hoops and wreaths of roses
and shepherds in satin coats, who carry crooks tied with knots of
riband. Oh! what white, pretty sheep they must be these shepherds tend!
Here are Alexander the Great and Zaire, and Pyrrhus and Merope, Mahomet,
Harlequin, Pierrot, Scapin, Blaise and Babette. They have come from all
parts, from Greece and Rome and the lands of Faery, to dance together.
What a fine thing a fancy ball is, and how delicious to be a great
King for an hour or a famous Princess! There is nothing to spoil
the pleasure. No need to act up to your costume, nor even to talk in
character.

It would be poor fun, mind you, to wear heroes' clothes if you had to
have a hero's heart as well. Heroes' hearts are torn with all sorts of
sorrows. They are most of them famous for their calamities. If they had
lived happy, we should never have heard of them. Merope had no wish to
dance. Pyrrhus was cruelly slain by Orestes just when he was going to
wed, and the innocent Zaire perished by the hand of her lover the Turk,
philosophical Turk though he