Jules did not know the names of half the dishes.
Not many miles away from that old garden, scattered up and down the
Loire throughout all the region of fair Tourraine, rise the turrets of
many an old chateau. Great banquet halls, where kings and queens once
feasted, still stand as silent witnesses of a gay bygone court life; but
never in any chateau or palace among them all was feast more thoroughly
enjoyed than this impromptu dinner in the garden, where a little
goatherd was the only guest.
It was an enchanted spot to Jules, made so by the magic of Joyce's
wonderful gift of story-telling. For the first time in his life that he
could remember, he heard of Santa Claus and Christmas trees, of
Bluebeard and Aladdin's lamp, and all the dear old fairy tales that were
so entrancing he almost forgot to eat.
Then they played that he was the prince, Prince Ethelried, and that the
goats in the carriage-house were his royal steeds, and that Joyce was a
queen whom he had come to visit.
[Illustration: A LESSON IN PATRIOTISM.]
But it came to an end, as all beautiful things must do. The bells in
the village rang four, and Prince Ethelried started up as Cinderella
must have done when the pumpkin coach disappeared. He was no longer a
king's son; he was only Jules, the little goatherd, who must hurry back
to the field before the coming of Brossard.
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