 Story one of The Magic Wand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gillian Henry. The Magic Wand by Tudor Jenks. The Magic Wand. While the King and the Magician were talking very earnestly together about a big giant who was reported to be coming from the seacoast, the telephone bell rang. Excuse me for one moment, remarked the King, getting up so quickly that he almost dropped his crown. But that is my ring. He stepped to the telephone and the Magician heard him say, yes the palace, yes I'm the King, the King, no not ring, King Monarch, yes the Magician, he is here yet. Then the King seemed to be listening intently and suddenly his face put on a scared expression. My goodness gracious me, he exclaimed, and turning to the Magician he said hurriedly, you are wanted at home and at once. Anything wrong, the Magician asked, wrong I should say so, the King replied, jumping up and down in his excitement. Anybody sick or dead? Sick, no, nor dead, not yet. But don't wait, hurry, run, ride, no you're an enchanter, fly. For pity's sake, what is it? Demanded the Magician, trotting along the palace corridor with the King running along beside him. Why, it's your baby. What can it be? exclaimed the Magician, who was now actually running. What can't it be? groaned the King. The baby has got your magic wand and they can't get it away from him and there's no telling what he may do with it. He has already changed his old nurse into an elephant and but hurry man, hurry. And the Magician ran as if he wore roller skates. None knew so well as he what might happen before he could reach home. He ran so hard that he lost his breath and was forced to halt on top of a hill from which he could see the castle in which he lived. As he sank, panting beside the road, he saw one of the turrets of his castle go sailing up into the air and burst like a rocket. Too breathless to speak, the poor Magician rose to his feet and struggled on. Halfway down the hill he was met by a fat but kindly elephant whose face seemed strangely familiar. The words of the King came to the Magician's mind and he at once guessed this to be the nurse. As the nurse elephant met her master, she seized him with her trunk, lifted him to a comfortable seat behind her ears, wheeled sharply around and ran toward the castle. Is it very bad Hannah Maria? The Magician asked as soon as he could speak. But the poor elephant could only groan as she charged onward. When they reached the gate of the courtyard, the Magician could see for himself that it was very bad indeed. Near the middle of the great open space stood the Magician's son. He looked much as usual except that instead of being the right size for a boy of four and one-half years, about as high as a table, he was now about twenty feet high. The Magician learned afterward that his son had wished to be more than three times as big as Papa and having the magic wand in his hand, the wish had been granted. Reginald exclaimed the Magician, what does this mean? Oh, replied the giant boy, I am having such fun. Did you see what a splendid elephant Hannah Maria made? What would you like to be, Papa? Reginald, you are a naughty boy, the poor Magician exclaimed. Give me the wand. Reginald wants it, said the baby frowning. Reginald likes the wand. It does such funny things. See the cows, Reginald can make them fly. Fly cows, fly. At once the cows in the meadow all sprouted out great wings and flapping them with a noise like a thousand pigeons, they flew up into the air and away they went. Reginald, said the Magician, you are doing very wrong. What will Mama say when she comes home? Little Mama won't say anything at all to a great big boy like me, replied Reginald laughing. You don't know what a little Papa you are. Why, you look like a little teeny-weeny silly mousey. Then the Magician had an idea. Can you make yourself small too? he asked. Of course I can, the baby answered. I can do whatever I like. Let Papa see you make yourself small like a mousey, said the Magician. All right, Reginald said the words. I wish I was small like a mousey, and at once his wish came true. The Magician lost sight of the baby now, for they had been standing far apart, but he went forward hoping to reach the child in time to take the wand from him. But just as he came near enough to find the little boy, the small creature disappeared entirely. The Magician stopped in dismay. Where are you my son? he called in a sweet tone. Here I am Papa. came the reply from over his head, and looking up he saw his son flying about in the form of a fairy. I thought I'd be a fairy. Don't you like me to be a fairy? The Magician didn't know what to do. So long as the baby was good-humoured, there was little danger of his doing any harm. But if the little fellow should lose his temper, there was no knowing what he might do. The best thing the father could think of was to keep the child amused and busy in the hope that he might be led to give up the wand or might forget it. Reginald, he said, Papa can't fly. I wish you would come down here where we can play together. No, said Reginald, shaking his head as he flew gently about. Reginald doesn't like to come down. But I'll tell you, Papa, what will be just splendid fun? You shall fly too, only not so fast as I can. The Magician tried in vain to say no, but in an instant he was fluttering in the air with his son, also turned into a fairy-like creature. Isn't this good fun? exclaimed Reginald. Come Papa, let's take a fly over the trees. Not daring to let the child out of his sight or to anger him by a refusal, the Magician was forced to go with him. Away both went through the air, until they had left the castle far behind them and were out in the open country. Reginald, said the Magician at last, Papa is tired. Don't you want to go home now? And Papa will tell you a nice story about choo-choo cars. And then you can go to sleep all nighty. But Reginald was not tempted. No, Papa. Reginald isn't sleepy. And said, Reginald can have real choo-choo right here. See? The child waved the wand, and behold, there were three railroads in the fields below them, along which locomotives went with a great puffing of steam and clanging of bells. Nice, said Reginald, smiling very joyously. Reginald likes Papa's magic stick. Now see, choo-choo's all go smash. Before the Magician could say a word, all the locomotives went crashing into one another, and their boilers blew up with a tremendous explosion. Reginald was so startled that he dropped the wand. The Magician made a dive for it, but not being able to fly so fast as Reginald, he did not succeed in securing the prize. Reginald laughed when the wand was once more in his hand. I'm tired of playing fairies, said he. I wish we were. Reginald shouted his father in an agony of fear. Do be careful, my son. I am Papa, he said. What do you like to be? Shall Reginald make Papa a real pretty ostrich? Goodness, no! Please don't, they exclaimed the Magician. And Reginald, we must go home. Papa is so tired of flying. Let us go home. All right, said Reginald. I wish we were home right now. And they were, so quickly that the Magician's breath left him again. They found themselves in Reginald's nursery, where his Noah's Ark animals were scattered over the floor. As soon as Reginald saw the wooden animals, he had a new idea. Oh, Papa, wouldn't it be nice if they were all alive? But Reginald, cried the poor Magician, what could we do with them all? Just think, there are lions and tigers and alligators. Well, I won't, said Reginald with a sigh. But I want to play something nice. But we can't play anything while we are so little, said the father. Won't you wish we are ourselves once more? I don't like to be a fairy. All right, Reginald answered. I wish we were just ourselves. It was much pleasanter to be themselves. And the Magician began to think he might recover his wand, now that Reginald was once more a little boy, and that he was a full-sized man. Reginald, said he, while you have Papa's magic stick, why don't you wish for something I'm using to play with? Wouldn't you like a drum? Drum makes a big noise, answered the baby. Does Papa want to be a drummer? No, no, said the Magician hastily. Papa doesn't care for drums. Papa would rather see Reginald's drum. You wish for a drum, and then while you play, Papa will hold the magic stick. No, said Reginald, frowning. Reginald wants this stick. Papa can't have it. Very well, answered the puzzled Magician. But please be very careful. Reginald will be careful, said the child, nodding his head. Where's Hannah Maria? You changed her into an elephant, said his father, and she can't cook your supper. I can change her back again, said Reginald, and I will. I wish she was changed back, and was here. Hannah Maria appeared in the room, about as angry as she could be. Without a word, she came rushing in at the door, descended upon the small boy, seized the wand, and threw it to the other side of the room. In an instant, the Magician had it in his hands, and once more felt safe. It took all the rest of the afternoon to restore things to their usual condition, and meanwhile Reginald, tired out by his busy day, had fallen fast asleep. He was too little to be punished for the mischief he had done, and so no more was said about it. But the magic wand was thereafter kept out of his reach. Reginald often begged for Papa's magic stick, but it was thought best not to let him have it. Altogether, it was a fortunate thing that Hannah Maria lost her temper just when she did. End of story one. Story two of The Magic Wand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gillian Henry. The Magic Wand by Tudor Jenks. The Sultan's Verses In a land so far to the east, that it is very warm when the sun rises, and quite chilly at sunset, a great sultan died. His successor happened to be a nephew who lived at some distance, so far away even from that distant land, that he wasn't a tall intimate with the late Sultan. In fact, they had met only half a dozen times at Thanksgiving dinners or similar occasions, and consequently the new Sultan shed no tears to quench his joy upon coming to the throne. He decided to rule wisely and justly, and therefore was eager to choose the most trustworthy advisors. When he arrived at his capital, he was conducted at once to the palace, and spent the first day or two in resting from his journey, and making the acquaintance of his courtiers, and buying becoming clothes. Among these courtiers was the vizier of the late Sultan, a very gentlemanly old fellow, whose turban and beard were never more impressive than on first meeting. When the Sultan arose late on the third day, he had decided to begin his reign, so he sent for the old vizier to have a private conversation with him in the throne room. Both sat down cross-legged in an attitude that would give American citizens the cramps, and the Sultan opened the little powwow thus. So that been riffraff. I think it is high time that we began our reign. Wisdom is heard, replied riffraff, with the ease and indifference of an old courtier. And it strikes me, as the Sultan went on, that it is an excellent opportunity for me to have our own way about several little matters that have long been in my mind. Your will is the people's law, was riffraff's safe answer, as he bowed like a china image. So I understand, the Sultan assented. Of course, we shall for a while carry on business upon the usual lines, so far as public affairs are concerned, but it is not to public business that we are referring just now. Why, indeed, remarked riffraff a little vaguely, as the Sultan paused, for he was thinking of something else, but so was the young Sultan. So I say, the Sultan replied. Now, so far as my own private affairs are concerned, I mean to have my own way about them. Yes, yes, for instance, I have long desired to be a poet, said the Sultan, looking aimlessly at the ceiling. The vizier started so abruptly that his turban fell off, and then he, too, looked at the ceiling, until the Sultan should choose to go on. It was a very embarrassing situation. In all the vizier's experience, nothing just like this had ever presented itself. The old Sultan had been a very sensible man, according to the vizier's opinion, and had considered poetry, well, he hadn't considered it at all. There was a silence that lasted until the bull-bull in the blue room had finished a long ditty. Then the vizier saw it was his move, so to speak, and he took refuge in a proverb, the first that occurred to him, cheerful as is perfectly consistent with piety, he said, shaking his head thoughtfully. So we think, said the Sultan, and we shall therefore allow you to conduct the realm about, as usual, for a short time, while we devote ourselves to poetry. Yuck, exclaimed the vizier, for he couldn't help it. Excuse me, said the Sultan, inquiringly. Every condition sits well upon a wise man, remarked Rifrath, who was fond of proverbs, especially when he didn't care to commit himself. But though that is all plain sailing, the Sultan went on again, after trying a moment in vain, to see what the proverb had to do with the subject. There is yet some difficulty, that is, to find a competent critic who will show me my faults and point out any little errors that may creep into my hasty lines. Now, if you yourself, Ben Rifrath, should prefer to undertake this responsible post, you can do so. My sovereign master, said Rifrath hastily, I am an old man. Let me care for the realm, for that trade I have long studied. I would prefer that another should become your critic and poetical advisor, a younger man. So be it, answered the young Sultan, but let me at least read to you one set of verses, which I happen to find in my kaftan. I would like your judgement upon these lines, before you but take yourself to your proper duties. Shall it be so? The vizier saw, by the look in the Sultan's eye, that the request was a command, and he replied an oriental phrase, that he was most honoured by the Sultan's condescension. So the young Sultan drew out a roll of manuscript, and read as follows. Youth is the season for hope. Hope befitteth the young. Youth has the vigor to cope with the woes that the singers have sung. Youth has the sparkle of mirth, laughter delighteth the soul. Spring is the youth of the earth. Merrily let carols roll. The Sultan rolled up his manuscript, and looked expectably at Ben Riffraff. What do you think of that? asked the Sultan. Give me your candid opinion, as one private gentleman might to another. Now the vizier thought the lines were very poor indeed, but he had often heard that poets were sensitive, and he therefore believed he was doing a very wise thing when he replied, Oh, your Highness, what thought, what music? How exquisite your rhymes. Soul and roll, why, it's a perfect rhyme. I think you have chosen wisely indeed, if I may be permitted to praise without the suspicion of flattery. Really like the little lines? asked the Sultan with a smile, a peculiar smile. Like them, why? They should be embroidered with gold thread on silken scarfs. Your Highness is right, you are a poet. Let me attend to the petty business of governing, and you can give yourself entirely to the sublime art of composition. So be it, said the Sultan, until I notify you to the contrary, I will leave the reins in your hands. Now as you will have plenty to attend to, will you kindly summon the chief treasurer as you go out? Thank you, good morning. The vizier salamed and vanished through the curtain doorway, and the page on duty outside noticed that the old vizier wore a broad grin as he walked down the arched corridor. In a few minutes the Sultan heard the jingling of the golden curtain rings, and beheld the face of the chief treasurer, a sedate and dignified man of middle age. Enter at him, El Shekels, said the Sultan kindly, and be seated. I would confer with you. My Lord, the treasurer is well supplied, and the account's straight. No doubt, interrupted the Sultan. But I have more important matters. More important, the treasurer began, so amazed that he forgot his manners. Verily, said the Sultan, overlooking the little breach of etiquette. As the vizier has no doubt informed you, I intend to devote my own time for the present to poetry. He told you so, did he not? Something of the sort, Your Highness, replied El Shekels uneasily, hoping that the Sultan wouldn't ask him to repeat the vizier's joking remarks. In fact, the vizier had hinted that the young Sultan thought himself a genius. I suspected as much, said the Sultan, and you were surprised, perhaps. Your Highness is the ruler, responded the treasurer politely. But I was surprised, I admit, and to tell the truth, if you will pardon me for saying so, I must say that, as a rule, there isn't much money to be made in poetry. I speak simply as a treasurer, Your Highness, not as a critic. But I wish your opinion as a critic, the Sultan answered. The question of providing funds I leave to you, for the present, unless I should appoint you to the new office I mean to create, that of chief critic and poetical advisor. The face of El Shekels had brightened when the new office was mentioned, but the brightness faded as the sentence ended. Your Highness is most gracious, but if it be your will, I prefer to remain treasurer. As you please, the Sultan replied, but meanwhile I happen to have in my kaftan a copy of verses that I have just completed. If you can spare the time, we shall be glad to have your opinion of them. Most certainly gracious sovereign, was the answer of El Shekels, while his face assumed a weary expression, and he began to do sums in mental arithmetic. So drawing forth the precious manuscript, the Sultan began, Youth is the season for hope, and on he went, reading in a fine, declamatory voice, as if trying to bring out the best points in the verses. When he concluded, he looked at the chief treasurer. Your Highness, the lines are above praise, said the treasurer. I hardly know which part to praise most. And that was true, for he hadn't paid very close attention. But I am sure your wisdom had led you aright. Your talents are far beyond my poor criticism. Let another be your chief critic. I am content to remain treasurer. Which shall be, as you say, the Sultan agreed, at least for the present. And as you go out, will you be kind enough to send us the... What officer comes next to you in rank? The Minister of Justice answered the treasurer. Yes, I will say that he comes at once. Well remarked the page at the door. The new Sultan certainly makes the officers happy. How they do grew in when they come back. Later in the afternoon, the page had reason to repeat this remark with added emphasis. For meanwhile, he had admitted the greatest officers of the realm, and all, as they came from their interview with the young sovereign, were adorned by the same self-satisfied grimace. Stronger and stronger became the page's curiosity to know what it was that made all the courtiers so well satisfied with themselves. For after the first two or three had explained to the rest that the young Sultan thinks he's a genius in the poetry line, and all you've got to do is to praise his verses, and you're sure to keep your place. It was as easy as rolling off a log to go in, hear the verses, and express your raptures, and come out in clover. But no one told the page about all this, and his curiosity about the interviews became very keen. He thought there must be something worth seeing in the throne room, for not long after each great official entered, he could hear a murmur of voices, and then such expressions as exquisite, beautiful, or perfect couldn't be better. Well, well, I never did. Never was anything like it. Strangely enough, the page's curiosity was gratified most unexpectedly. It was getting late, and the Sultan had seen all the prominent officials off the palace. At length he came to the doorway, and found the page sitting in attendance on rather a thin and hard cushion. Why, my boy, said the Sultan kindly. He must be worn out. Have you been there all day? All day, Your Majesty? The page replied respectfully. And since Your Majesty asks me, I am a little tired. Come in, said the Sultan, holding aside the curtain. You shall rest a while. What? With Your Majesty in the throne room? The boy exclaimed in amazement. Certainly. No one need no, answered the Sultan kindly. Are you afraid of me? No, Your Majesty, said the page, for the Sultan smiled very cordially, and the page entered the throne room. Be seated, said the Sultan. I command it, he added, as the boy hesitated. So the page sat down upon a soft silk cushion. I have been writing some verses, said the Sultan, as he bad the boy help himself to the delicious fruits and ices. And while you refresh yourself, I should like to read them to you. Your Majesty is very kind, said the page. But suppose someone should come? No one will come, said the Sultan decidedly. And he clapped his hands, summoned a slave, and about him stands sentinel to keep out all intruders. So, while the boy enjoyed the fruits and ices, the Sultan, for the twentieth time at least, read aloud his precious lines on youth. When he had finished, he turned to the page, saying, No, I should like your opinion of the poem. But, Your Highness, I am too young to criticise your verses, replied the page uneasily. All nonsense, answered the Sultan, but pleasantly enough. I see you have an opinion. I desire you to express it freely. Nay, more than that, I command you to do so. I must obey, then, said the page, looking very serious. But if I should incur Your Majesty's displeasure, may I beg that you will visit your wrath upon me alone? I have a mother and sister who are dependent upon me. They shall be cared for, said the Sultan, in a solemn tone, if the need arises. But you make me suspect that my lines do not meet with your approval. On your own head be it, Commander of the Faithful, exclaimed the unhappy page. By the Prophet, as I promised my mother that I would tell truth, the lines are the various bosh and nonsense. They mean nothing. They do not even sound sensible. They are as unmusical as the braying of a lost donkey. There I have said the truth. A man dies but once. Remember, then, your words. Allah be praised, cried the Sultan. I have found a pearl. And all the men of my court declared the lines perfect, beyond praise. Now have I found the honest man I sought. But Your Majesty! stammered the astonished page. I am no more than a boy. Enough, said the Sultan. The years will find you wisdom as well as age. But honesty comes not even with long ages if the seed be not already planted. Say not a word. The Sultan clapped his hands, directed all the courtiers to be summoned, and in their presence appointed the page chief counsellor and grand high vizier of the realm for life, at the same time investing him with the order of the golden sunburst of the east, and a whole row of smaller decorations of different colours. When this ceremony was over, Silla bin Rifraff prostrated himself before the throne. Speak, Ben Rifraff, said the Sultan. With Your Majesty, Dane, to inform his humble slaves, what has caused the merited elevation of his favourite? Ben Rifraff inquired. Most willingly, responded the Sultan. I read my verses to this youth, and he has given upon them the wisest judgment of you all. But words cannot say more than we said, Ben Rifraff ventured to say. Did we not praise your highness's genius? Of a truth you did, replied the Sultan, yet were the verses the various trash, as you well knew. Most true, O Sultan, came the chorus from the whole court, for they saw the tide had turned. And courage to tell this truth was found only in my page, whom I have made chief counsellor. Enough. The audience is at an end. Then, just before the band struck up an inspiring march, the voice of Ben Rifraff was heard reciting a well-known proverb, which, in its original Arabic, looks like a procession of earthworms, but which means, in plain English, after wit is everybody's wit. End of Story 2. Story 3. Of the Magic Wand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gillian Henry. The Magic Wand by Tudor Jenks. The Boy and Dragon It was by the nearest accident that I happened to read that copy of The Daily Electriser. A small boy was flying a kite, and it caught in the telephone wire that ran by my window. In trying to disentangle it, I noticed an advertisement headed, Wanted a young man of noble lineage to release a distressed princess, who is now held captive by a medium-sized but ferocious dragon. Johnny, I called to the small boy. My name isn't Johnny, he replied, and I don't want to be called Johnny, Mr. His hair was red, and he seemed to have a quick temper. I am not a mister, I answered in kindly but dignified tones, and I don't like the title. What is your name, my rosy-sculpt friend? He looked around for a stone to throw, but the street was paved with Belgian blocks, each weighing about ten pounds, and he made up his mind to be civil. My name's Roderick Adolphus Peterson Stubbs Jr. He answered, putting on his cap and pulling it down hard. Now what's yours? I am the disinherited Duke of Marable, Count of Macintosh, I said. He whistled, your name is as bad as mine. Your name is not that bad, I said soothingly. Oh, isn't it? He returned, with an up-and-down stairs inflection. The boys call me Roddy, ready and raps. What do they call you? They don't call me anything, I replied affably. But what I wanted, Roderick, was to inquire whether I may cut an advertisement out of this newspaper. What's it about, rare stamps? No, about a princess and a dragon. All right then, cut it out and paste on another piece. But what are you going to do with it? I thought I would rescue the princess from the dragon, and maybe marry her, if she is beautiful, good, economical and rich, inquired Roderick. Oh, that doesn't matter, I said. I have enough for both. Say, remarked Roderick after a short pause. Lend me a quarter, will you? What for? Juice to our club, he answered. I am the treasurer, you know, and I keep the cash, and there was a circus in town last week. Did you see it? And I am a quarter short. You're very welcome, I answered. So I threw him a quarter, cut out the advertisement, and shut the window. I found, on reading the notice, that the princess had been carried away some three months before, and that she was held in captivity in a cavern upon a lofty mountain peak. I made up my mind that it was a worthy case of genuine distress, well suited to a modern night errands enterprise. I consulted a timetable, and found that a train left for her native land at 745. I had just about time to pack my valise before the train started. Upon my way to the station, I met Roderick AP Stubbs Jr., who was also carrying a small satchel. Hello, he said. Why, Roderick, where are you going? I asked. I've run away from home, he said, with a mournful grin. What for? I asked in astonishment. Because nobody loves me, he replied, in a tone of settled despair. How do you know that? I inquired. They sent me away from the table at dinner today. He answered angrily. I saw that it was useless to argue with him in his present frame of mind, and so I asked, where are you going? As far as sixty-seven cents will take me, he answered, and from there I'll walk until I wear out my Sunday shoes. This, Roderick, is all wrong, I said seriously. Let me persuade you to give up this foolish idea. Come with me instead. I will telegraph to your family that you are safe, and he'll be back in two weeks. Then you can come with me and help me to slay this dragon. He seemed moved by my appeal. How do you know, he inquired, that we will be back in two weeks? That is the ordinary time, I replied, for a medium-sized dragon. In fact, I have slain them in less. How do you do it? Roderick asked with curiosity. Come with me and you shall see, I suggested smiling. It is all right for you, said Roderick after a moment's reflection. For you will get the princess and the reward. But what good will that do me? Very true, I replied. You will deserve some reward also. How would you like a gold-plated bicycle? With a bell and a lantern, he asked eagerly. Certainly, I answered, with all the modern improvements. I'll do it, he said. We walked along together, and when I came to a telegraph office, I sent a dispatch to Mr and Mrs Stubbs, informing them that Roderick had agreed to spend two weeks with me on a dragon hunt. Roderick seemed relieved when the message had gone. We caught the train, and after a pleasant journey, arrived in the land of the captive princess. We went boldly up the front steps of the palace and rang the bell. To the attendant who answered the summons, I explained my errand. He asked me to come in and sit down in the reception room. After a few moments, the king came in. I'm sorry to keep you waiting, he said pleasantly. But I am just back from the funeral of the last dragon-fighter. He was a twelfth, so you are the thirteenth. Don't mention it, I said politely. We waited only a moment. Your Majesty, let me introduce my assistant, Mr Stubbs, Rodolfo's Adderick Peterson Stubbs. Well, you have made a mix of it, said Roderick, with indignation. Never mind, said his Majesty. I am happy to meet you, Mr Stubbs. I hope you will succeed in your work. Thank you, sir, said Roderick. Won't you have some refreshment? was His Majesty's next remark. How is the ice cream today? Roderick asked with an ease that surprised me. The vanilla is good, answered the king, but the chocolate is a little flat. The vanilla will do very well, said Roderick graciously. So the king rang the bell, ordered a quart and a pint of vanilla plain, and we discussed the terms of our bargain over the luncheon. Soon we were agreed. It was arranged that I was to slay the dragon in two weeks, or be banished for forty years to a desert island. If I slew him, I was to marry the princess. Roderick was, in case of success, to have his bicycle, in case of failure, to learn by heart all the pieces of verse in the fourth reader. There, said the king, I'm glad it's settled. The princess Amelia Ann is greatly missed at home, and the dragon is a public nuisance. He feeds on rocks, flies over the city at night rattling his scales, and wakes all the children, turns all the milk-sour with his roaring. Eats the pet swans in the public parks, and altogether makes himself as unpleasant as he can. Why hasn't he been killed? I asked. The dozen who tried it have all failed, his majesty answered with a sigh. He spouts fire, has quills of pure steel like a porcupine, flies like an express train, strikes like a pile driver, has armour of solid iron, a foot thick, and is difficult to talk to as he understands only Arabic. Does he ever fly by day? I asked. Sometimes, but very rarely. Here he comes now, suddenly shrieked the king, getting under the sofa. There was a clatter like that made by a truckload of steel rails being carried over a cobblestone pavement, a dark object whisked by the window, and the noise died away in the distance. He's gone down to the station to get his mail, said the king, as he crawled out and dusted his robes. Does he get letters? Roderick asked in amazement. Oh no, the king answered, smiling politely at the boy's mistake. I mean his coat of mail. He makes it out of steel rails. He chews them up, melts them in his fiery jaws, and adds a new coating every week or two. You must excuse me, he went on. I have business to attend to. Farewell, I trust you will succeed. We bowed ourselves out, and I went and secured the use of a modest set of apartments during our stay, and also leased a boiler factory for two weeks. There is no use in disguising the fact, I said to my assistant, Mr Stubbs, that this is rather a difficult dragon to overcome. It is my first experience with a steel-clad dragon, and I have been told that they are not easy to manage. Still, I think I see my way clear in this case. What are you going to do? asked Roderick. I thought I would make a knight out of iron, put a photograph in him, set him up somewhere near the cavern where the princess is, make him defy the dragon, have him loaded up with dynamite, and then, when the dragon comes down on him, there will be an explosion, and away will go knight, dynamite, and all. What do you think of my plan? It's too much trouble and costs too much, said Roderick promptly. I was hurt. The boy was too forward. Do you think you can do any better? I asked irritably. Why, of course I can, said Roderick, and I'll tell you what I'll do. You help me the first week, and if I don't succeed, I'll help you the second week. Really, the boy's self-confidence was amazing. I made up my mind to let him have his own way, merely to cure him of self-confidence. Very well, I said, it shall be as you say. All right, said Roderick. The next day, by his direction, we bought hundreds of bales of cotton batting, and engaged a lot of men to make it up in the shape of swans. Below each swan was fastened a light board. About two dozen of these swans were set afloat each day for four or five days. Strange to say, they all disappeared during the night. Then a terrible roaring was heard from the distant mountain where the dragon dwelt. The next night, Roderick bought a great number of electric lights in glass bulbs, and after consultation with the court interpreter, went into the boiler factory and climbed up to its roof. He arranged the lights on the roof in a curious pattern, and then came home and slept soundly. During the next day, Roderick rigged himself up in a long robe, a high hat, a large pair of spectacles without glass, and a cotton batting wick and beard. And when evening came, he went to spend the night on the roof of the boiler factory. There was a terrible rattle and clatter and roar that night that woke all the children for miles around. Next morning, Roderick was nowhere to be found. I thought so, I said bitterly to myself. This comes of letting a foolish boy have his own way. Evidently, the dragon has made mincemeat of that unfortunate Roderick Adolphus Peterson Stubbs Junior with all his tomfool costumes. Then I sat down to compose a fitting telegram to the stubses. I had written as far as, Roderick missing, probably dragon has, when there was a sound of cheering in the street, and I ran to the window. I saw Roderick dressed in a magnificent court suit three sizes too large for him, being escorted to our lodgings by an enthusiastic crowd of citizens. They had taken the horses from the royal coach and were drawing him in triumph amid wild cries of Stubbs the dragon doctor, Stubbs forever, Stubbs the saver of princesses, and similar expressions. Soon he entered the room. Roderick, my dear boy, I asked, explain the scene, will you? It's easy enough to explain it, said Roderick. I rescued the princess. What? You r- I rescued the princess, he repeated. And how did you do it? The dragon ate the cotton batting swans. Yes, they made him sick. Yes. I put up a sign in electric lights on top of the factory. Yes. The court interpreter helped me, and I put it up in Arabic saying dragon doctor. Then when the dragon read it, I fixed myself up like an old doctor, and he carried me off to prescribe for him. And you prescribed? I prescribed an entire change of scene and air. I advised and ordered him to go to the North Pole. I offered to take care of the princess while he was away. He went early this morning, and I brought the princess home before dinner. You did wonderfully well, I said heartily, and was the princess beautiful? I have brought you her photograph. And Roderick drew the portrait from his pocket and handed it to me. I looked at it eagerly and turned to Roderick. Let us go home, I said. All right, he answered. Amelia Ann may be lovely in character, I observed, as we hurried toward the station, but I wonder the dragon ever survived the sight of her face. As we partied at the gate leading to Roderick's house, I said, farewell, you are young, but in time you'll do good work in dragon slaying. Farewell, said Roderick. Then you'll send the bicycle? I will, I said. Then as I grasped his hand in parting, I added, never mind that quarter, you can keep it. But when the dragon gets back from the North Pole, there's going to be trouble. End of Story 3. End of The Magic Wand.