"Just for that," snapped Bobby, "I'll give you a bunch of them. Only these must be written down to be appreciated."
She produced a long slip of paper from her pocket, uncrumpled it, and began to read:
"'There was a fine lady named Cholmondely,
In person and manner so colmondely
That the people in town
From noble to clown
Did nothing but gaze at her, dolmondely.'
Now, isn't that refined and beautiful?"
"It is--not!" said Chet. "That is only a play upon pronunciation."
"Carping critics!" exclaimed Lance. "Go ahead, Bobby. Let's hear the others."
As Bobby had been saving them up for just such an opportunity as this, she proceeded to read:
"'There lived in the City of Worcester
A lively political borcester,
Who would sit on his gate
When his own candidate
Was passing, and crow like a rorcester!"
"Help! Help!" moaned Chet, falling into the cook's rocking chair and making it creak tremendously.
"Don't break up the furniture," his sister advised him, as she took a peep at the pies in the oven.
"'Pies and poetry'!" exclaimed Jess. "Go ahead, Bobby. Relieve your constitution of those sad, sad doggerels."
Nothing loath, the younger girl, and with twinkling eyes, sing-songed the following:
"'There was a young sailor of Gloucester,
Who had a sweetheart, but he loucest'er.
She bade him good-day,
So some people say,
Because he too frequently boucest'er.'