And longs to clasp it in his arms,
Wherever he may rove.
“He likes the little scarlet flames
That sparkle in the fire,
And in a boiling tea-kettle
Sees something to admire.
“Do you remember what comes next?” he inquired anxiously. “I am afraid that I have forgotten.”
“No,” said Nibbles. “I am very fond of singing, but I don’t know any poetry.”
“Well,” yawned the Salamander, “in that case, I think, if you don’t mind, that I’ll take another nap. Poetry always makes me very sleepy.”
Then, curling his short little arms around the tea-kettle, and resting his head so near the spout that Nibbles was afraid the steam would blow it off, he began once more to recite very drowsily.