"Who are you?"
Then the Kangaroo-Confectioner said a surprising thing. He replied:
"I am the Architect."
The moment he had spoken he put up his hand and shut his mouth, to prevent the sound of his words going on and on in the curious air of the place, which seemed to hold sounds suspended as water holds the fronds of weeds.
Smaly looked at him dubiously.
"You say you are an architect ... and yet your occupation appears to me to be much more that of a confectioner, a super-confectioner."
The Kangaroo seemed overcome with a nervousness; his smiling face creased itself into a thousand little lines of distress, his eyes looked vacant, his manner became flustered. Evidently he was struggling with his emotion. When he had sufficiently recovered he planted his long feet more firmly on their scarlet pattens, and, taking a deep breath, chanted as follows:
"With jam I build the walls,
And with jam I fill the tarts,
With honey-cake I tile the roofs
Which crest the pastry towers.
The chairs are made of barley-sugar
And the tables and napkins are not of custard,
Nor of mustard nor of treacle,
But I weave them of thin macaroni.
"I am the Builder Architect,
Who makes the cottages and the tarts,
Who knows all about chairs and farms,
Who makes the castles and the biscuits
With chocolate and nice cornflour.
"Where I am—honey, tea, and sugar!
Where you are, pepper, ginger, and allspice!"