“There’s been no time for building rhyme,
For I’ve been very busy.
My daily work I must not shirk
For—for—”
“For if you do, you’ll get dizzy,” suggested Chub.
“Thank you,” laughed Billy. “‘Busy’ ’s a bad word to rhyme to. I ought to have known better than to use it.”
“Did—[did it just come natural for you to make poetry?]” asked Harry. “Or did you have to learn?”
“I guess it came natural,” was the reply.
“I wish I could do it,” Harry said wistfully. “But I can’t. I’ve tried and tried. I never can think of any rhymes. Do you think I could learn, Mr. Noon?”
“I dare say you could,” answered Billy. “I never did much of it until I joined the Great Indian Chief Medicine Company. Then I sort of worked it up.”
“Did you write advertisements?” asked Chub.
“No. You see, we traveled around from one place to another in a couple of big wagons selling this medicine. It was fine medicine, too, if you believed the wrappers and the boss. It cured anything, from warts to laziness, and cost a dollar a bottle, or six bottles for five dollars with your horoscope thrown in. There were five of us with the outfit, and we dressed like Indians and talked five languages, including North of Ireland. I was Wallapoola, the great Choctaw Poet, and my part was to stand under the gasolene torch at the end of the wagon and make rhymes on the names of the folks in the audience. That pleased them, generally, and they’d plank down their dollar and go away happy with a bottle of Great Indian. Some of the rhymes were pretty bad, especially at first, and now and then I’d just simply get floored like I was awhile ago. It was easy enough as long as they gave us names like Smith and Jones and White and Brown, but one night a big, lanky farmer pushed his way to the front and told Doc—Doc was the boss, you know—that he’d buy six bottles if I’d make a rhyme for his name. I scented trouble right away and tried to tip Doc the wink, but he wasn’t worried a bit. He just laughed and said there wasn’t a word in the English language I couldn’t find a rhyme for. And then he asked the farmer what his name was.
“‘Humphrey,’ says the farmer.