his soul. Then, too, he had never fared so well in his life. He could
never remember the time before when he had been a whole week without
being hungry. He sent his wages every month to his parents; and he
never ceased to wonder at the discontent of the Prince.

"They grow so slow," the Prince would say, wrinkling up his handsome
forehead. "I expected to have a bushelful of new toys every month; and
not one have I had yet. And these stingy old Monks say I can only have
my usual Christmas share anyway, nor can I pick them out myself. I
never saw such a stupid place to stay in my life. I want to have my
velvet tunic on and go home to the palace and ride on my white pony
with the silver tail, and hear them all tell me how charming I am."
Then the Prince would crook his arm and put his head on it and cry.

Peter pitied him, and tried to comfort him, but it was not of much
use, for the Prince got angry because he was not discontented as well
as himself.

Two weeks before Christmas everything in the garden was nearly ready
to be picked. Some few things needed a little more December sun, but
everything looked perfect. Some of the Jack-in-the-boxes would not
pop out quite quick enough, and some of the jumping-Jacks were hardly
as limber as they might be as yet; that was all. As it was so near
Christmas the Monks were engaged in their holy exercises in the chapel
for the greater part of the time, and only went over the garden once a
day to see if everything was all right.

The Prince and Peter were obliged to be there all the time. There was
plenty of work for them to do; for once in a while something would
blow over, and then there were the penny-trumpets to keep in tune; and