“An Oder?” repeated he vaguely. “What’s that?”
“A person who writes Odes, of course,” replied the Wooden Soldier; “because, if you are, I should be greatly obligated if you would kindly write one for me. I intentionized writing it myself, but I have been considerizing that it would be more properish to have it written by a real Poet.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you!” cried the Public Rhymester gratefully, “it is very kind indeed of you to say that. A poor Poet, you know, gets very little praise from any one nowadays, especially a Minor one, such as I am. Why, a Grand Old Statesman said the other day—but there, I mustn’t let you into State Secrets. What is the subject upon which you wish me to write?”
“Oh,—a—a—lady,” said One-and-Nine bashfully, blushing up to the roots of his green paint.
“Of course,” said the Public Rhymester smilingly; “it usually is.”
“And particularly about er—er—a—the corkscrew curls, you know,” said One-and-Nine, stammering nervously. “Such delightfulish fascinationizing curls—six on each side, you know—and they woggle when she shakes her head—oh, dearest, dearest Martha Matilda,” and the poor Wooden Soldier seemed quite overcome by his emotions.
“Ah! these military men, these military men,” said the Public Rhymester, shaking his head, “what susceptible creatures they are, to be sure, always in love with some fair one or other! But there, we must do the best we can for him, I suppose. What is the lady’s name?” he inquired.
“Mrs. Martha Matilda Nimpky,” replied One-and-Nine faintly.
“What! the Royal Nurse?” exclaimed the Public Rhymester in surprise.
The Wooden Soldier nodded his head.