Tommy was almost surprised to find the echo awake at this time of night.
“Hold your tongue!” said he. “Matters are provoking enough of themselves. Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Gelf! Helf! Jelf! What rubbish! There can’t be a word to fit it. And then to look for Brownie, and see nothing but myself!”
“Myself!” said the Echo.
“Will you be quiet?” said Tommy. “If you would tell one the word there would be some sense in your interference; but to roar ‘Myself!’ at one, which neither rhymes nor runs—it does rhyme though, as it happens,” he added; “and how very odd! it runs too—
‘Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf;
I looked in the water, and saw myself,’
which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny would say; so I shall go back and ask her.”
“Ask her!” said the Echo.
“Didn’t I say I should?” said Tommy. “How exasperating you are! It is very strange. Myself certainly does rhyme, and I wonder I did not think of it long ago.”
“Go,” said the Echo.