could stand an insult like that. So he just said,--

"_Casino_ is a fine game."

But "No," the Queen replied angrily, "I played that long before you
were born. And my honorable ancestors played it before me."

Again Marmaduke felt in his pockets, hoping to find something that
would help him out. He drew forth a penny, a fishhook, a dried worm,
two marbles, and--there--just the thing--the game of Authors, which
Aunt Phrony had given him for his birthday.

"I'll tell you what," he told the Queen, "let's play Authors. There's
nothing better than that."

"Authors, authors--" the Queen replied, tapping her foot impatiently,
"what are they?"

"Oh, people who write books and stories an' things. It's very nice."

So he explained to the Queen all about them, about Longfellow and
Whittier and all the rest. He really didn't know so very much about
them, you see, but he had played the game so often that he knew the
cards and names "'most by heart."

"Gracious!" exclaimed the Queen--in Chinese, of course. "Whittier and
Longfellow--what _pretty_ names! But haven't you got Confucius
there, somewhere?" Confucius, you see, was a man who wrote in Chinese
long years ago, and he was one of her pet authors.