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Children. [Cheerily.]Good evening, Father Time.

Father Time. [Very sadly.]Good evening, little folks.

Boy. [Aside.]The old man looks terribly blue

to-night, doesn’t he?

Girl. Sh! Don’t let him hear you say that—Poor

old Father Time!

Father Time. You may well say “Poor old Father

Time.”

Children. [Together.]Why, have you had bad

luck, Father Time?

First Girl. Are you ill?

Second Girl. Can’t we help you?

Father Time. [Shakes his head several times most

sorrowfully, then steps forward as if suddenly struck

with a fine idea.]Perhaps you can help me,—yes, I

do believe you children are the very ones who can.

Children. [Eagerly.]Oh, tell us how!

[They gather near him.]

Father Time. Well, my dears, a sad state of affairs

exists in my family. I’m ashamed to tell you—but

my twelve children have been quarreling.

Children. Children quarreling! How shocking!

Father Time. True, true, my friends. And the

worst of it is that they declare they will never leave

off wrangling until one of them has proven his right