“When we have inspiration,” aided Ned, glibly.
“Yes, that’s it, inspiration! We—we have to have inspiration.”
“I’m sure Antoinette ought to be enough inspiration to any poet,” returned Polly, laughing. “You know you never saw a more beautiful rabbit in your life—lives, I mean.”
Ned looked inquiringly at Laurie. Then he said, “Well, maybe if I close my eyes a minute—” He suited action to word. Polly viewed him with eager interest; Laurie, with misgiving. Finally, after a moment of silent suspense, his eyelids flickered and:
“O Antoinette, most lovely of thy kind!” he declaimed.
“Thou eatest cabbages and watermelon rind!” finished Laurie, promptly.
Polly clapped her hands, but her approval was short-lived. “But she doesn’t eatest watermelon rind,” she declared indignantly. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be at all good for her!”
Laurie grinned. “That’s what we call poetic license,” he explained. “When you make a rhyme, sometimes you’ve got to—to sacrifice truth for—in the interests of—I mean, you’ve got to think of the sound! ‘Kind’ and ‘carrot’ wouldn’t sound right, don’t you see?”
“Well, I’m sure watermelon rind doesn’t sound right, either,” objected Polly; “not for a rabbit. Rabbits have very delicate digestions.”
“We might change it,” offered Ned. “How would this do?