“There was a rock in my bed,” said the Forgetful Poet thoughtfully, “and then I got trying to think of a word to rhyme with schnetzel.”
“How about pretzel?” suggested Dorothy, smiling a little to herself at the Forgetful Poet’s earnestness.
“And what is a schnetzel?” Dorothy smiled sweetly.
“It’s a green mocking bird,” explained Percy Vere, tossing back his hair, “and it does live on pretzels. My dear, you have a wonderful mind.”
“Woof!” interrupted Toto. He had been up for hours and wanted his breakfast. The three travellers had been forced to spend the night in the deep forest to which the runaway had brought them. The Forgetful Poet had piled up a soft couch of boughs and leaves for Dorothy and Toto, but had flung himself carelessly under a tree. However, it took more than a hard bed to dash Percy’s spirits and, after running up and down a few paces to get the stiffness out of his bones, he began to sing at the top of his voice, filling in the words he forgot with such comical made-up ones that Dorothy could not help laughing.
“I think we are going to have a lucky day, Mr Vere,” said the little girl, hopping up merrily. “Don’t you?”
Percy, who was washing his face in a near-by brook, nodded so vigorously that the water splashed in every direction.
“I should say!—April, May!” he called gaily.
“Why do you put in April May?” asked Dorothy, running over to splash her own hands in the brook.
“To keep in practice,” puffed the Forgetful Poet. “Is that plain—aeroplane? Is that clear—summer’s here? I’m always afraid I shall run out of rhymes,” confided Percy, drying his face on his yellow silk handkerchief. “So when I’m talking in prose, I usually add a line under my breath.”