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ALL in the golden afternoon. Full leisurely we glide ; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied. While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide.

Ah, cruel Three ! In such an hour. Beneath such dreamy weather, To beg a tale of breath too weak To stir the tiniest feather ! Yet what can one poor voice avail Against three tongues together ? Imperious Prima flashes forth Her edict " to begin it " — In gentler tone Secunda hopes "There will be nonsense in it," While Tertia interrupts the tale Not more than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through a land Of wonders wild and new. In friendly chat with bird or beast — And half believe it true.