“Well, then,” said Jemmy, “I’ll tell you one.”
Here our indisputably remarkable boy gave himself a hug, and laughed again, musically, at the idea of his coming out in that new line. Then he once more took the fire into the same sort of confidence as before, and began:
“Once upon a time, When pigs drank wine, And monkeys chewed tobaccer, ’Twas neither in your time nor mine, But that’s no macker—”
“Bless the child!” cried my esteemed friend, “what’s amiss with his brain?”
“It’s poetry, Gran,” returned Jemmy, shouting with laughter. “We always begin stories that way at school.”
“Gave me quite a turn, Major,” said my esteemed friend, fanning herself with a plate. “Thought he was light-headed!”
“In those remarkable times, Gran and godfather, there was once a boy,—not me, you know.”
“No, no,” says my respected friend, “not you. Not him, Major, you understand?”
“No, no,” says I.
“And he went to school in Rutlandshire—”