“Well, I don’t know,” Arthur remarked (he had been busy writing while Frank was embroidering); “I can sew (lo) a little, myself; listen.”
He dodged a pillow, a spool, a ball of tarred twine and a book, and then began the following:
Gazelle, Gazelle,
She’ll run pell mell,
With every stitch a-drawing,
O’er waters smooth
And waters rough,
The seas her forefoot spurning.
Gazelle, Gazelle,
She’s quite a swell;