en in waiting, the Queen made her dignified farewell with the words:—
"My Lords, My Dooks, the Captive cried,
Were I but once more three,
For ten good-nights on yonder hill
To aid my caws and me,
This garment would I scatter wide
To every freeze that flows.
And once more brain a stupid queen,
And all resourceless foes.
Yours sincerely,
which was as near as she could remember to what she had heard Mummy read.
She then turned to the Headsman who, one regrets to relate, was spitting on his hands, the better to grip his mighty axe. (He had seen Bobball adopt that method when about to dig him a trench in the sand.) He overdid it altogether, however.
"Dirty dog!" remarked the Queen, sotto voce.
"Well—of corthe—if Your Highety wants the akth to thlip and give you a fearful wump with the back of it, I don't mind," replied the Headsman.
