"And will he?" asked the children.

"Yes," said the Lion, "if it gets too bad."

Everybody stopped talking now, for the Griffin, after much further pressing, had made up his mind what he was going to sing. He decided to make a start in a key which was indescribable, and with a voice that resembled the tw.a.n.ging of a banjo that had not been tuned.

And thus the Griffin sang--

"Of a merry, merry king I will relate Who owned much silver, gold and plate, And wishing to be up-to-date Within his city, Placed a handsome Griffin outside the gate, A creature pretty.

"Yet one thing, the merry, merry king forgot That it would be his Griffin's lot To be very, very cold, or very, very hot, High up in Fleet Street.

So slowly the faithful creature got Chilblains upon his feet.

"The Griffin grew prettier day by day Directing the traffic along each way, With always a pleasant word to say All along Fleet Street.

One trouble alone caused him dismay, His very tender feet.

_Chorus--_

"Oh! my poor tender feet!

Of what use are England's laws, Unless they protect my claws And keep me warm in the street?

Nothing so young and fair, Ever sniffed Fleet Street air, Ever sang like the Dove-- And--All that I ask is love."

At this point the Griffin was so overcome by his own performance that he burst into tears; and despite the excessive hilarity of every one present, to say nothing of Carry-on-Merry, who was rolling upon the floor in his mirth, the Griffin continued to sob, and from time to time wiped away the big tears that rolled down his cheeks with the fur upon the Lord Mayor's mantle that he wore.

"It always affects me," sobbed the Griffin.

"Yes," answered the Lion, "it has affected all of us strangely."

"Nearly been the death of me," gulped Carry-on-Merry.

"I think I will go home now," said the Griffin, as he surrept.i.tiously wiped away the last tears and prepared to depart.

"Oh, don't think of leaving us yet," said the Lion.

"Very well," sniffed the Griffin; "perhaps I may be asked to sing again."

"Not if I know it," whispered the Lion in an undertone; "one performance of that nature is quite sufficient for one evening."

At this moment Carry-on-Merry announced that the dogs, wishing to return thanks for the general pleasantness of the party, and being unable to sing themselves, had deputed one of their number, a most intelligent bob-tail sheep-dog, to compose an ode.

This particular dog, it was thought, had some claims as a poet, since he was a lineal descendant of the canine companion who invariably accompanied Robert Burns in all his wanderings.

The three laughing little lions would now sing the ode the bob-tailed sheep-dog had composed, with the general permission of the company.

"Let us hear it," said the Lion.

"Oh! fancy singing after me," remarked the Griffin.

"Yes," agreed the Lion, "it shows great courage."

Gamble, Grin, and Grub arranged themselves in order, and Gamble commenced--

"Cross Chelsea Bridge, by Chelsea town There is a place called Battersea.

The very name to Christian dog's Will make them shudder fearfully."

Here Grin took up the solo.

"A place where gloomy prison doors Do shut up homeless dogs If ever they get lost, or stray During the London fogs."

Grub hereupon came forward.

"When once inside that citadel Within three days or four, They send you to a dreadful room Where you never bark no more."

Then came the Chorus--

"Pleasant-Faced Lion, our thanks to thee For having avoided Battersea."

"Very well sung," admitted the Lion. "I suppose that, being always so close to Westminster Abbey, the little lions have taken some useful hints from what they have heard going on inside.

"The time has come for the party to finish," announced the Pleasant-Faced Lion, "but before it is ended----"

"Has it got to end now?" Ridgwell asked wistfully.

"Everything has to come to an end some time," replied the Lion quietly, "from ices and parties to empires and the world. However," he added encouragingly, "one can always look forward to some possible and pleasant continuation of almost everything, although, perhaps, on different, not to say advanced lines. Before you children go I shall be able to show you the most wonderfully coloured transformation scene you have ever witnessed. Watch carefully the long wall of the Pavilion which you are facing," commanded the Lion.

Carry-on-Merry romped up at this moment laughing as merrily as when the evening commenced.

"Time?" inquired Carry-on-Merry.

The Pleasant-Faced Lion nodded.

"Yes, now," he said.

Slowly the golden wall and the roof with its ma.s.ses of brilliantly hanging flowers seemed to fade away.

The children knew it was Trafalgar Square they were looking at once again, yet a Trafalgar Square transformed out of all resemblance to its usual familiar aspect.

As the walls appeared to drop before their eyes a brilliant golden bungalow palace with the children dressed as Scarlet Beefeaters grouped down its shining steps glimmered through the rose-pink light in which they beheld it. Surely it could not be the National Gallery!

All the children present pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed before it in their dazzling costumes, making vivid splashes of colour, as changeful and as fascinating as a kaleidoscope.

The fountains still sprayed their mists of violet, amethyst and gold.

"Mark the changing colours well," said the Lion, "and take in all the picture well, for you will not see it ever like this again."