The little girl who thought she was a princess summoned up her most abject humility--and she truly felt humble in the presence of this amazing avian--and did not even raise her eyes. "Please," she entreated, "do accept my apology. For I do truly wish for your continued company."
"Well..." considered the chickadee, fluttering and fluffing up all his little feathers to show how truly annoyed he found himself.
"What nonnnnnnsenssssssssssse," pronounced a seductive voice from off to her right somewhere.
The little girl who thought she was a princess nearly dropped her sceptre, so startled was she by this unexpected opinion. "Who is there?" she asked, looking about for the owner of said opinion.
The bushes began to shake and rustle as a large grey-and-white tabby cat slowly rose to her feet and stretched as though she had all the time in the world. Or perhaps as though she knew the world would of course stop on its axis to await her pleasure. She didn't even bother with the courtesy of a reply. "What perrrrrrrrfect nonsense," she opined languidly.
The chickadee, who had flitted a safe distance away at the first sound of her voice, now flitted back down to the handrailing at the side of the steps. Now, chickadees and cats do not get on well even at the best of times. And this was decidedly not the best of times. It may not be well-known in the greater world, but chickadees do not like to be interrupted. And most certainly they do not like to be interrupted by cats.
For their part, cats don't much care one way or the other if chickadees--or anyone else, for that matter--interrupt them. They simply ignore the offender and go on about their business. They are too important, you see, to be bothered by such trivialities. Instead, this specific cat set about washing herself.
The chickadee chip-chip-chipped irritably for a moment, hopping back and forth on the railing. Then he ruffled his grey and white plumage and settled down. "As I was saying..." he began again.
"As _I_ was saying," interrupted the cat. "This is nonsense." She looked up at the little girl who thought she was a princess, looked her over from the top of her slightly-bent card-board-and-aluminum-foil tiara to the tip of her rather scuffed patent-leather MaryJanes, and sniffed. "A princess, indeeeeeeed," she growled. "What nonsense!"
Now, everyone knows a chickadee is slightly smaller than a common sparrow, with a longer tail and slimmer body. But at this particular moment, this particular chickadee had taken on approximately the proportions of a nearly-mature young crow, so agitated was he. Each and every feather stuck out of his body at maximum ruffle. "AS I WAS SAYING..." he began again, his little chickadee voice quite surprisingly forceful.
The cat began to lick her paws daintily, rubbing them over her ears to show how thoroughly she was not listening to the chickadee.
"...I believe we need to get to the bottom of this princess issue," the chickadee finished. He began to smooth his feathers, for in truth it was rather painful to have one's feathers in such an unnatural state of flex.
"Nonsensssssssse," hissed the cat, not even breaking off her ablutions. "Princess, indeed!"
The little girl who thought she was a princess had sat rather quietly throughout this power-struggle. But now she addressed the cat. "Why is it nonsense?" she wanted to know.
The cat rubbed one ear with a wet paw several times before answering. Then, at long last, she turned her grey-green eyes to the little girl, blinked once with just one of them, and settled down contentedly. "Becaussssssssssse," she drawled. "You are most assuredly not a princess." She half-closed her eyes, tucking her forepaws under her chest.
The little girl began to look concerned.
"Rubbish," chipped the chickadee, beginning to hop about angrily, flouncing his feathers at the cat--as if this would in some way intimidate the feline. It wouldn't, of course, and well he knew it. But he was a rather proud little thing, and never one to shy away from a fight. "And just h-h-how would _you_ know if she were, or were _not_, a p-p-princess?"
The befurred arbiter did not even rouse herself. "'A cat may look at a king'," quothe she.
The chickadee waited.
The little girl who thought she was a princess but was now not quite so certain waited.
The chickadee waited some more.
The cat may have dozed off. It was difficult to tell.
Finally, after deciding after all that the cat would most likely stop him before he'd had the chance fully to peck her eyes out, the chickadee leaped into the air and fluttered about the cat's head, just out of reach. "And just _what_ is _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded in a high-pitched screech which only hinted at his high state of dudgeon.
The cat half-opened her eyes. "Just what it says. A cat may look at a king. But I am _not_ looking at a princess."
The little girl began to chew her lower lip slightly, tasting the slightly nasty after-taste of artificial strawberries left behind by the earlier application of Tinkerbell(tm) lipstick. Her fingers had long ago left off worrying the rough edges of the two-by-two that constituted the shaft of her sceptre, and began winding themselves around each other, clasping and unclasping. "I am not a princess?" she asked, in a soft voice that sounded everso much more like a little girl than it had heretofore, and had a tendency to tremble just a bit.
"Well, now," began the chickadee. "I believe the jury is still out on that ques--"
"No," interrupted the cat firmly. "You are not. There are only two ways to be a princess. You must either have been born into royalty, or marry a prince. Since, by your own admission you were not the former, and by common sense you cannot have been the latter, you are not a princess. Case closed."
The little girl sat very still, her eyes fixed solidly on her hands, now clasped tightly in her lap. "But..." she whispered. "I was told that I am a princess."
The cat made what amounted to a small hissing sound. "Silly girl. Don't you know every parent tells his or her little girl she is a princess? It's just the way they talk. They certainly didn't mean it literally. If you had any sense at all, you'd know that!"
The little girl's apparent distress increased as she processed this information.
"It simply means they will pet you and coddle you and make a fuss over you..." She trailed off, but no one thought for a moment that she was finished. "...Until they have the next child," she added smugly.
The little girl who was beginning to doubt herself very much bit her lower lip. "The...next child?" she repeated, her gaze now riveted upon the cat.
The cat nodded. "The youngest child is always the princess. Or the prince. Whichever." She looked unblinkingly at the little girl. "Do you have any older brothers or sisters?" she asked suddenly.
"Y-yes..." replied the little girl. "Four brothers and a sister."
"And are any of them referred to as 'prince' or 'princess'?"
"N-no," admitted the little girl who was beginning to see where this was going.
"Well, there you are, then. As each successive child came along, he or she deposed the former. And now there's only you. And you will be deposed in due time, if another child comes along." She licked her paw, and then looked up as if just thinking of something. "Or when you learn to say 'no', if that comes first."
Evidence of tears showed clearly in the little girl's eyes as her world began coming apart at the very selvages. "But... they love me!" she protested with little strength.
"Ah, well. Then you must not have begun to defy them yet. You wait. You'll see. It happens in every family. I know. I've seen it oh, so many times."
"That will never happen to her," boomed a confident voice, which belonged to a large and determined-looking Rotweiller, his broken chain dangling from the spiked collar around his neck. "Her parents will never stop loving her."
The cat reared up, ears flat, every hair follicle at attention, and hissed loudly.
"Oh, hold your water, cat," grumbled the dog, sitting himself down with a "haruff" sound that suggested he was tired and glad to be seated. "This here's neutral territory, long as _she's_ here." He tossed his head in the little girl's direction.
The cat settled back down, but left her claws bared just in case.
"Now," continued the dog, "I know this little girl. She walks passed my yard every morning on her way to school, and every noon on her way home. And she has always been very good to me."
The cat sniffed, and began grooming herself again--just to show how unconcerned she was at the dog's continued presence. "Oaf," she muttered soto voce.
"Every morning, she stops and enquires after my health. And at noontime, she plays with me, providing my people have not taken me inside."
He smiled fondly at the little girl who didn't know what she was anymore. He put a paw on her arm.
"Why, sometimes she throws the ball for me! And she never seems to get tired of it, no matter how many times I bring it back to her." He chuckled. "She scratches me behind the ears, and under the collar where I can't reach." Unconsciously, he lifted a rear leg and began to scratch. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, looking a little embarrassed.
Then, he got serious. "And one day," he said, gravely, with the sort of dignity a Rotweiller just naturally commands, "one of those unexpectedly hot days in May, my people left me without filling my water dish."
At this, he even had the cat's attention. But only momentarily. She soon went back to her bath. The chickadee nodded with nearly as much gravity as the dog had managed. Chickadees are like that sometimes. But the little girl stared into the near-distance, seeing nothing.
"It was soooooooo hot," continued the Rottie. "And I was soooo thirsty. And she--" He nodded at the little girl. "--she noticed! Nothing would do but that she fill my bowl. And not from that sun-warmed stuff, mind you. She waited for the tap to get really cold. Well, I was so thirsty, I confess I emptied the bowl in about 3 laps! And she filled it up again! And, when I emptied it again, she filled it a third time. And--" He made eye-contact with the other animals. "--the bell had already rung for class!"
He finished with a nod. Then he nuzzled the little girl's arm. "Because of her, I had water all day, till my people came home."
Absently, the little girl began to stroke his head. He nudged his nose under her arm and looked up at her with open devotion in his liquid brown eyes.
"Pfff!" hissed the cat dismissively. "Stupid dog! What do you know? Your owners probably hired her to look after you! No one would make such a bother unless they were being paid!"
All eyes turned to the little girl.
But she was not listening, and unaware she had suddenly become the center of speculation.
"You sssssee? She doesn't even deny it!" observed the cat. "She's only in it for the money!"
The cat got up and stretched, first raising her hind-quarters, and then her fore-quarters. "Enough of this nonsense." She lifted her tail and walked sedately off across the tarvy (which is what the locals called the black-topped play area).
"What a be-be--"
"Ahem!" came a small but compelling voice from somewhere near the base of the wall that bordered the steps.
Even the little girl who was very confused about herself looked down to see whence it came.
There, in a little crack of a hole, sat a little mouse, with a very grey muzzle and misshapen toes.
The chickadee flitted a bit. "I know you!" he declared, excitedly. "You're the mouse from the church across the street!" He flitted a bit more, making a rather erratic pattern along the railing. He looked at the others. "He's been known to leave out a kernel or two of grain for a passing avian on a cold winter's day." The chickadee dropped down to the step beside the old mouse and bowed. "My deepest thanks, sirrah!"
The old mouse nodded his head slightly. "A pleasure, sir," he replied. Then he turned to the little girl. "Forgive my intrusion," he said, "But I have been resting in this hole for some time now, and I could not help over-hearing what has transpired here."
"I am most sorry we disturbed you," she replied.
"Not at all. But I thought it best not to show myself while the cat was about." He dusted himself off. "I didn't get to be nearly two years old by showing myself to cats, I'll tell you!"
The dog and the chickadee both gasped. For they knew, as the little girl obviously did not, that two years was an extraordinary old age for a mouse. This one must be wise, indeed, to have survived so long! They both looked on him with considerably more respect.
"Now," continued the mouse. "So far, I have heard rationalism from the scientist," he said, nodding in the direction of the chickadee. "And I have heard faith from a loyal friend." He nodded at the dog. "And I have even heard jealousy, from the cynic." He nodded in the direction of the retreating cat. "But I have not heard..." He looked up at the little girl. "..._your_ story."
The little girl who was even more confused than ever just stared at the little mouse. "My story?"
He nodded. "Tell me, young one," he began. "What do you believe it means to be a princess?" He waited. But even wise old mice are not known for their patience. When one lives life as fast as they, time takes on new perspective. A moment seems an hour to their way of thinking. So he began to prompt her. "Does it mean being cosseted and pampered? Does it mean lying about whilst you are waited upon hand and foot? Does it mean always getting your own way, or telling others what they must and must not do?"
The little girl frowned in what they took to be surprise. "Goodness no!" she replied. "Whatever gave you such a notion?"
The dog and the chickadee exchanged a glance of surprise, but neither spoke. They knew better than to interrupt their elder.
The mouse, for his part, merely waggled his whiskers for a moment. Then he replied. "It is a well-known aphorism that 'Rank Hath Its Privilege'," he stated, watching closely to see how the girl would respond to this.
She blinked. "Well..." She considered a moment. "But my grandmother always says 'with privilege comes responsibility.' I imagine that if I were a princess, I would therefore have a greater amount of responsibility than those who are not."
Slowly, slowly a small smile spread across the aged mouse's snout. "Then," he said softly, "You do not see such privilege as an excuse to behave badly?"
Again the little girl appeared puzzled. "Well...no. Why should I do that?"
"What responsibilities do you see for yourself?" he went on, ignoring her question, which he took to be merely rhetorical. "If," he added, "you were, indeed, a princess?"
The little girl who formerly thought she was a princess but now knew that of course she was not thought a moment before she answered. "I should think I would have the responsibility to behave _better_ than others do," she began. "I should have the responsibility to share with others since, as a princess, I would likely have more than they. I should be obliged to look out for those who need help--"
"And why is that?" interrupted the mouse.
"Because I could," she replied simply, with a tone of surprise. The expression upon her face suggested she thought it was a rather odd question, as the answer was so obvious as not to need asking after.
The mouse just smiled slightly. "Go on."
"Well, I should have the responsibility to make good decisions, since others would be bound by them. And never to ask anything of anyone that I could get or do for myself." Before the mouse could interrupt again, she added for his benefit, "that would hardly be fair, would it? To take from someone else something I could get for myself?"
Again, the mouse merely nodded.
"And finally, at the end of the day," continued the little girl, "I should have the responsibility to thank God for all that I had."
At this, the mouse arched his little white brow-hairs. "And why is that?"
This time, the little girl was not surprised at the question. She still thought it obvious, but thought perhaps the old mouse was losing some of his reasoning capabilities. "Because," she explained, patiently, as if to a child, "it is none of _my_ doing if I were a princess. God decides into what state we will be born, does He not?"
The mouse smiled and nodded his head, rather like a professor pleased to be given the correct answer at Oral Boards. "Well, then," he said, "it seems to me you truly _are_ a princess."
"Eh?" countered the little girl who was confused about princesses in general and her own state vis-à-vis princessness in specific. "But the cat said--"
"Pish-tosh!" declared the mouse. "The cat is a Spoiler. She delights in nothing so much as spoiling what others have. She takes whatever she is given and gives nothing in return. And when she sees that someone else has something she has not, she does what she can to take it away, either by theft or seduction, or she spoils it so the other cannot enjoy it."
"Hear, hear!" agreed the chickadee.
The mouse ignored him. "I believe there is an old saying that applies here. 'If it quacks like a duck, and walks like a duck, and looks like a duck, it's probably a duck.'"
He looked about the circle of faces looking back at him with varying degrees of confusion. "Put more simply, 'Princess is as princess does.'"
"Ah," said the chickadee, the light of comprehension dawning. "You mean that because she behaves like a princess, she is one."
The little mouse chuckled, his wispy whiskers shaking. "Not precisely," he said, smiling. "But I see in her a great deal more noblesse than in many princesses of royal blood. For this reason, by the power vested in me by my advanced old age, I dub her a True Princess. A princess in spirit. A...spiritual princess, if you will. For she knows what a princess truly is."
The mouse hobbled over and laid a trembling paw upon her finger. "My dear," he said gently. "You do not need that tiara of cardboard and tinsel. For you have a crown of Noble Spirit. And you do not need to wear that pink blanket, for you have wrapped yourself in kindness and concern for others. As for your wooden sceptre... hold fast instead to your responsibilities and your ideals, and you will never again need to tell anyone that you are a princess. For they will know."
The dog and the chickadee nodded in agreement. "Well put, sir," said the dog. "Well put."
"Aye," chimed the chickadee. "She's a dee-dee-decent sort!"
The door at the top of the steps opened with a clang followed by a long screeching sound. It was the little girl's teacher, and she looked very concerned. "Oh!" she cried. "Here you are! Are you all right, my dear?"
The little girl stood up, pulling off the cardboard-and-tinfoil tiara and wrapping it, with her wood and foil sceptre, in the pink blanket from her bed that she had been wearing, and smiled. "I'm all right, Miss Johnson," she said. "I understand now."
Miss Johnson's concern turned to a relieved smile. She reached out her hand to the little girl, secure in the certainty that the little girl had returned to the Land of Reality, and never once suspecting, from that day to this, that what the little girl had really meant was that she now understood that, no matter what anyone said to her or how many laughed at her, she would always be a princess.
And so she is, to this very day.
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