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And everyone showed up--the grand Poopah, the amazing Saheed, and even the Grand Panjandrum himself. Then we all ran around in circles screaming pansies until our throats turned a very subtle shade of chartruse. As the party drove itself into the crooked pan, we played a lively game of catch-as-can-catch until the gun-powder ran out of the heels of our boots. Before we knew it, there were three doves and only a lonely pecan stuck to the underside of the punch ladle. Mrs. Fiddlemore found a sneaky moth torquing a small handicapped banker by the side of the road and we all took a swig of marmalade and motor oil as a token of friendliness before we left.