A KING AGED EIGHT

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume LXIV, 29 March 1930, Page 2

A KING AGED EIGHT

RUMANIA'S RULER INTERVIEWED PRINCE CAROL'S SON "Good morning, your Majesty!" An eight-year-old boy steps toward me, a faint smile on his face, as he offers nic his hand (writes F. J. do Kelcd in. "The World's News"). I liow. Ue smiles cordially, showing two dimples in his cheeks—this sovereign over 18,000,000 souls, this king, in a few years, over life and deatli; and nothing but a pink-cheeked boy. It is King Michael 1., eight-year-old master 'of Rumania; the grandson of Queen Marie, the son of Princess Helen and Prince Carol. He has something of the strong personality of his father; eyes that tell an. expressive story, skin that shows the royal blood, manners of the stately old Spanish code of etiquette. He holds his head majestically. "Good morning, sir," ho answers in good English, and, turning his head, greets in Rumanian the group of bowing courtiers, his attaches, the satelites who revolve, around him. We are walking through the gardens of the royal castle at Sin.aia. Guards are everywhere; as the King* passes they present arms.

"It's sunny to-day. The air is so clear. There is seldom so cloudless a sky," remarks the little King, as he looks around at the mountain peaks, close by and distant, which surround the huge and elaborate royal estate. The beautifully cultivated parks might have been at Fontainebleau, or Potsdam, so perfectly are they arranged and cared for.

The little boy seems to enjoy nature, and, as we go farther, he leaves us and starts to run toward a stretch of open lawn. We increase our pace, not knowing quite what to do, but just as we start to run, the King stops. He stands stiffly at salute before the flag of his country, fluttering at the peak of a high flagpole. To one side, in platoon front, the palace guards are led by the colonel commanding the Royal Bodyguard in salute to the Hag also. His respects to the sacred emblem of his country paid—a daily ceremony—the King salutes the colonel gravely and turns sharply away. His face shows an entirely different expression now, quite serious, quite kinglike. But as he nears us he is more and more the boy again. We are now a crowd of about seventeen people. I am standing on the left of General Costescu, Inspector-General of the Rumanian Army, and personal adjutant to the King. Others are the King's governess, the chief valet of the castle, three officers of the Royal Bodyguard, a chauffeur, stableman and servant.

As we start again to continue our promenade along the smooth gravel paths I ask his Majesty what he likes best to do. And now, just as any boy of any country would answer, whatever his means, he starts to, tell me his long list of favoured pastimes. Not going to school, of course, but travelling, outdoor sports, and every sort of active play; running, playing ball, bicycling, horseback riding, and driving a car. A farm boy of about the same age told me the same things a few years ago. A little later, as if to prove the truth of his feelings, his Majesty calls: "Eugen ! Get me my bicycle." The bicycle appears as if from a magician's hand. The king mounts, and soon he is riding confidently. The governess and the footman begin running after him. Twice around the cas-tle-the panting couple f jllow him. Then, laughing over his shoulder, he gives them the slip by pedalling at full speed down the long hill to the garages. Full of anxiety, the governess is shouting after him: "Be careful, your Majesty! you'll fall!" Everybody is concerned over , the precious bo'dy of the boy Michael, who has forgotten that he is his Majesty the King. The long-legged footman says nothing, but races his.master at full speed. Arrived at the garages, the King hands over his bicycle and orders his automobile, which is a small electrically-driven roadster, just big enough for the royal child and an adult companion. "That's the necest present Uncle Nicky ever gave me!" he says joyously as ho gets out. There is a chorus, "Well done, your Majesty."

Uncle Nicky, incidentally, is his Royal Highness Prince Nicholas, member of the Regency Council of Rumania, which governs the country until the King's coming of age. We are slowly walking hack to the palace when his Majesty stops in front of a large clump of shrubbery. "Have you a penknife?" he asks one of his aides. "I have, your Majesty," is the reply. "Barge or small?" "Both." The official, a permanent penknife depository, presents the penknives to the King. With a few heavy slashes of the larger penknife he cuts off one of the branches cleanly "Well done, your Majesty," sayps a guardsman. "I can cut a very much bigger one," is the King's modes! reply. With the aid of the smaller knife the branch in the King's hand soon takes the form of a very thin walking-stick. It gives him an attractive new idea. His face is alight with enthusiasm as he asks: "Shall we do something in the carpenter shop?" "We are afraid that is impossible to-day, your Majesty,' 'is the answer he receives. "Her Royal Highness has forbidden it." And. although carpentry work is'one of the King's great passions, he no longer insists. As we near the palace, the King puts on an air of mystery. "I'll give you a big surprise! You want to photograph me, and so I'm going to get ready." Ten minutes later his Majesty appears beside his personal adjutant, Major Mardarescu, quite a different little man. His new clothes consist of <t. grey flannel suit, with long trousers. 'I wish you well to wear them," lays the Inspector-General. "Thank you, Costeseu," replies the King. Noticing that one of the trouser cuffs !a disarranged, the Inspector-General •■/.oops down to put it in place. "Now your Majesty is quite big," he says admiringly. The King, greatly flattered, smiles iris satisfaction, showing a dimple in each cheek. "I'm afraid I'll have to get back to toy studies," he says. "Good-bye, gentlemen." He smiles a little wistfully, and walks very slowly toward his wait ing tutor.