At that the man chanted off in a nasal sing-song, as if he were accustomed to repeating his rhyme:
J. D. Matthews is my name,
Ohio-r is my nation,
Mud Creek is my dwellin' place,
And glory is my expectation.
“Yes,” said Grandma Padgett, removing her glasses, as she did when very much puzzled.
Corinne, in a distant corner of the lighted room, began to laugh aloud, and after looking towards her, the man laughed also, as if they two were enjoying a joke upon the mother.
“Well, it may be funny, but you gave us enough of a scare with your gruntin' and your groanin',” said Grandma Padgett severely.
J. D. Matthews reminded of his recent tribulations, took up one of his feet and began to groan over it again. He was as shapeless and clumsy as a bear, and this motion seemed not unlike the tiltings of a bear forced to dance.
“There you go,” said Grandma Padgett. “Can't you tell how you came in the cellar, and what hurt you?”
Mr. Matthews piped out readily, as if he had packed the stanza into shape between the groans of his underground sojourn:
To the cellar for fuel I did go,
And there I met my overthrow;
I lost my footing and my candle,
And grazed my shin and sprained my ankle.
“The man must be a poet,” pronounced Grandma Padgett with contempt. “He has to say everything in rhyme.”