The little king's
face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined
his head and said with grave simplicity:
'I thank you, my good people.'
This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of
merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the
Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature:
'Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. Humor thy fancy, if thou
must, but choose some other title.'
A tinker shrieked out a suggestion:
'Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!'
The title 'took' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring
shout sent up, of:
'Long live Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!' followed by
hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.
'Hale him forth, and crown him!'
'Robe him!'
'Scepter him!'
'Throne him!'
These and twenty other cries broke out at once; and almost
before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned
with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a
barrel, and sceptered with tinker's soldering-iron. Then all flung
themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical
wailings, and mocking supplications, while they swabbed their eyes
with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons:
'Be gracious to us, O sweet king!'
'Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble majesty!'
'Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!'
'Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of
sovereignty!'
'Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat
the dirt and be ennobled!'
'Deign to spit upon us, O sire, that our children's children may
tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy forever!'
But the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and
carried off the honors.
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