“Go ahead,” says he. “I guess I can s-s-stand ’most any thin’ to-day.”
“Here it is,” says I:
“There was a boy and he was fat.
He went and hunted for a cat.
It was a cat that didn’t stir,
And probably it didn’t purr.
That was a funny kind of cat;
The boy was talking through his hat.”
Mark didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, and we knew we had him. At last we had stung him good, and he couldn’t think of anything to say. I was that tickled I reached over and poked Tallow in the ribs.
Mark looked at me sad-like, and then says: “I got a l-l-little to add to that poem. How’s this?
“He h-hunted for it all alone,
Because the f-f-fellers’ heads was bone,
And found a cat made out of s-stone!”
He almost yelled that last word, and looked so tickled and excited I knew in a second that he had the best of us again.
“What’s that?” says I.
“Come and see,” says he, and up we got and followed him. He led us down the yard a piece where we could see all those carved animals, and then he took us around a clump of bushes and pointed down. There was a cat! It was a stone cat.
“Guess she don’t move frequent, d-does she?” says he.