Our poverty, if poverty it be, is not disgraceful, until we attempt
to conceal it by our affectation of foreign airs and graces.




MAYA, THE PRINCESS.

The sea floated its foam-caps upon the gray shore, and murmured its
inarticulate love-stories all day to the dumb rocks above; the blue
sky was bordered with saffron sunrises, pink sunsets, silver
moon-fringes, or spangled with careless stars; the air was full of
south-winds that had fluttered the hearts of a thousand roses and a
million violets with long, deep kisses, and then flung the delicate
odors abroad to tell their exploits, and set the butterflies mad
with jealousy, and the bees crazy with avarice. And all this bloom
was upon the country of Larrierepensee, when Queen Lura's little
daughter came to life in the Topaz Palace that stood on Sunrise Hills,
and was King Joconde's summer pavilion.

Now there was no searching far and wide for godfathers, godmothers,
and a name, as there is when the princesses of this world are born:
for, in the first place, Larrierepensee was a country of pious
heathen, and full of fairies; the people worshipped an Idea, and
invited the fairy folk to all their parties, as we who are proper
here invite the clergy; only the fairy folk did not get behind the
door, or leave the room, when dancing commenced.

And the reason why this princess was born to a name, as well as to a
kingdom, was, that, long ago, the people who kept records in