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 of the stage. The richly-dressed actresses and actors tripped



about singing bravely and pretending not to mind it. The King was delighted,—his enthusiasm grew higher. He cried out.—

"Bravo, bravo! More thunder! more lightning! turn on more rain!"

The thunder boomed, the lightning glared, the storm-winds raged, the deluge poured down. The mimic royalty on the stage, with their soaked satins clinging to their bodies, slopped around ankle deep in water, warbling their sweetest and best, the fiddlers under the eaves of the stage sawed away for dear life, with the cold overflow spouting down the backs of their necks, and the dry and happy King sat in his lofty box and wore his gloves to ribbons applauding.

"More yet!" cried the King; "more yet,—let loose all the thunder, turn on all the water! I will hang the man that raises an umbrella!"

When this most tremendous and effective storm that had ever been produced in any theatre was at last over, the King's approbation was measureless. He cried,—

"Magnificent, magnificent! Encore! Do it again!"