The Pixilated Peeress

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Thorolf Zigramson laid his scabbarded sword on the grass and baited his hook with a squirming green grub. He tossed the hook into the pool in the mountain stream and watched the crim­son float bob amid the silvery ripples. He gathered his russet cloak to sit down on the greensward when, a few paces downstream, a holly-green spruce sapling spoke:

"Goodman! Pray give me some clothes!"

Thorolf started. Dropping his fishpole, he clapped a bronzen hand to the hilt of his dagger. "What say you, bush?"

The sapling's voice, though musical still, took on a note of command. "I said, give me some clothes! Your cloak will do, to start."

"Forsooth! And why should I give my good Tyrrhe­nian mantle away to the first bush that begs for it?"

The voice grew sharp. "Cease calling me 'bush,' knave!"

"Why? Prefer you 'shrub'? Or perchance 'ever­green'?"

"Oaf! The proper address for one of my rank is 'my lady' or 'your Highness.' "

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