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The captive princess leaned despairingly on the parapet of the high tower. She was angry. In all fairy tales that she had, ever read, the beautiful prince had come riding to her rescue out of the far north, had slain the wicked ogre and had borne away the princess to a happy, if thoroughly respectable, wedding. She raised her telescope once more. And once more a rescue came speeding into view upon the rim of the farthest horizon and once more he turned and field as he caught sight of the wicked ogre. She wondered if the world had grown too old for fairy tales.
Where now was the adventurous Prince Yudenitch, the charmingly cryptic Prince Kolchak, the mystically vague Prince Denekine? Where was the Prince of Poland? Where the Prince of Ukraine? Where were the Princes of the Esths and the Letts, of whose existence she had never known until she had been warned that they were riding to rescue her? They were all gone, frightened away by the evil monster, Bolshevism.
The Princess was named Boston Evening Transcript. She was not a young princess, but she was not a young Princess, but she was vigorous and well-preserved. She could not understand the cowardice of her champions. They might have faltered, she reflected, had she ever allowed a thought to furrow her bleak brow. But she was sure she had never done that. Had she been a wanton, she thought, her plight might be explainable. But had she not, year after year, proclaimed to the world her immaculate chastity?
The Princess Boston Evening Transcript beat her beast, she flung in despair her arms upward to an austere Puritanic diety who made no answering sign. She was abandoned of all the world. She must rescue herself. Cautiously and with infinite trembling she descended the iron stairs; stealthily she opened the little tower door. She tiptoed past the ogre. He turned and looked upon her. In an instant he might rend her. The poor princess stood transfixed with terror. "And what is your name, old lady?" he asked.
Could such things be? The princess trembled, but now it was with rage. "I am the Boston Evening Transcript," she said haughtily. "I am you're most implacable foe. I have been waiting for someone to rescue me from you!"
"Well, isn't that interesting!" said the ogre. "Why didn't you walk right out? I'm sorry, but I never heard of you before." And now is Boston hung with crepe and all the emblems of mourning for the shock killed the well-preserved Princess. But even her death was forgotten, for no longer was there a hallowed obituary column wherein her lineage might be traced and her gestures of philanthropy recorded.
The moral is. Make sure there's something to get excited about before you get excited. ANON.--WALPOLE ENTERPRISE.
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