"Did you compose it?" said Dorothy, kindly.
"No," said the Highlander; "I only made it up. Would you like to hear it?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Dorothy, as gravely as she could; "I should like to hear it very much."
"It's called"—said the Highlander, lowering his voice confidentially and looking cautiously about—"it's called 'The Pickle and the Policeman';" and, taking a little paper out of his pocket, he began:
"There was a little pickle and his name was John—"
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Dorothy, "I don't think that will do at all."
"Suppose I call him George?" said the Highlander, gazing reflectively at his paper. "It's got to be something short, you know."
"But you mustn't call him anything," said Dorothy, laughing. "Pickles don't have any names."
"All right," said the Highlander; and, taking out a pencil, he began repairing his poetry with great industry. He did a great deal of writing, and a good deal of rubbing out with his thumb, and finally said triumphantly:
"There was a little pickle and he hadn't any name!"