; but it made no matter, for,
whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!"

The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be
let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a
firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal
Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.

"What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she
was walking on the terrace.

"They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always answered
questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more natural.
I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to
appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must
certainly see them."

So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as
soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place,
the fireworks began to talk to each other.

"The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just
look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real Crackers they could
not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the
mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices."

"The King's garden is not the world, you foolish Squib," said a big
Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you
three days to see it thoroughly."

"Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed the pensive
Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life,
and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any
more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody
believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent.
I remember myself once---- But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing
of the past."

"Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like the
moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love
each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a
brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as
myself, and he knew the latest Court news."

But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is
dead, Romance is dead," she murmured. She was one of those people who
think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times,
it becomes true in the end.

Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, an