With a dark and greasy paw."
"Shut up!" said Ronald. "She'd throw it out of the window if she thought it wasn't clean. Call her a maiden if you like."
"It was made by an Indian maiden—there isn't any rhyme for 'maiden.'"
"Laden," suggested George, after long and painful thought.
"That's good, if we can work it in."
"It was made by an Indian maiden—
With my love it now goes laden.
"How's that?"
"Fine!" beamed Ronald. "Say, I didn't know you were a poet!"
"Neither did I," replied Forsyth, modestly.