Read, I say, not roasted—
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
‘Thanks!’ they cry. ‘‘Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!’
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting—
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
That Camel passed, as Day grew dim
Around the ruined Pump.
‘O broken heart! O broken limb!
It needs,’ that Camel said to him,
‘Something more fairy-like and slim,
To execute a jump!’
That Pig lay still as any stone,
And could not stir a stump:
Nor ever, if the truth were known,
Was he again observed to moan,
Nor ever wring his hoofs and groan,
Because he could not jump.
That Frog made no remark, for he
Was dismal as a dump:
He knew the consequence must be
That he would never get his fee—
And still he sits, in miserie,
Upon that ruined Pump!
‘It’s a miserable story!’ said Bruno. ‘It begins miserably, and it ends miserablier. I think I shall cry. Sylvie, please lend me your handkerchief.’
‘I haven’t got it with me,’ Sylvie whispered.
‘Then I wo’n’t cry,’ said Bruno manfully.
‘There are more Introductory Verses to come,’ said the Other Professor, ‘but I’m hungry.’ He sat down, cut a large slice of cake, put it on Bruno’s plate, and gazed at his own empty plate in astonishment.
‘Where did you get that cake?’ Sylvie whispered to Bruno.
‘He gived it me,’ said Bruno.
‘But you shouldn’t ask for things! You know you shouldn’t!’
‘I didn’t ask,’ said Bruno, taking a fresh mouthful: ‘he gived it me.’
Sylvie considered this for a moment: then she saw her way out of it. ‘Well, then, ask him to give me some!’
‘You seem to enjoy that cake?’ the Professor remarked.
‘Doos that mean "munch"?’ Bruno whispered to Sylvie.
Sylvie nodded. ‘It means "to munch" and "to like to munch".’
Bruno smiled at the Professor. ‘I doos enjoy it,’ he said.
The Other Professor caught the word. ‘And I hope you’re enjoying yourself, little Man?’ he enquired.
Bruno’s look of horror quite startled him. ‘No, indeed I aren’t!’ he said.
The Other Professor looked thoroughly puzzled. ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘Try some cowslip wine!’ And he filled a glass and handed it to Bruno. ‘Drink this, my dear, and you’ll be quite another man!’
‘Who shall I be?’ said Bruno, pausing in the act of putting it to his lips.
‘Don’t ask so many questions!’ Sylvie interposed, anxious to save the poor old man from further bewilderment. ‘Suppose we get the Professor to tell us a story.’
Bruno adopted the idea with enthusiasm. ‘Please do!’ he cried eagerly. ‘Sumfin about tigers—and bumble-bees—and robin-redbreasts, oo knows!’
‘Why should you always have live things in stories?’ said the Professor. ‘Why don’t you have events, or circumstances?’
‘Oh, please invent a story like that!’ cried Bruno.
The Professor began fluently enough. ‘Once a coincidence was taking a walk with a little accident, and they met an explanation—a very old explanation—so old that it was quite doubled up, and looked more like a conundrum—’ he broke off suddenly.
‘Please go on!’ both children exclaimed.
The Professor made a candid confession. ‘It’s a very difficult sort to invent, I find. Suppose Bruno tells one, first.’
Bruno was only too happy to adopt the suggestion.
‘Once there were a Pig, and a Accordion, and two jars of Orange-marmalade—’
‘The dramatis personæ,’ murmured the Professor. ‘Well, what then?’
‘So, when the Pig played on the Accordion,’ Bruno went on, ‘one of the Jars of Orange-marmalade didn’t like the tune, and the other Jar of Orange-marmalade did like the tune—I know I shall get confused among those Jars of Orange-marmalade, Sylvie!’ he whispered anxiously.