Tell me foot-stool what you will.”
“I need re-covering,” creaked the foot-stool promptly. “And next time you trip over me, I trust you will crack both shins.”
“Ho! Ho!” roared the wizard, bending backward and forward with mirth, “that’s nice of you. Anything else?” As the foot-stool made no further remark, he walked to the mantel and touched the clock.
“Ooney, mooney, nooney nill,
Tell me, old clock, what you will.”
“Your wig’s on crooked,” ticked the clock critically, “and there’s a smudge on the end of your nose.” Looking in the glass, Wumbo saw that the clock, as usual, was telling the truth. Straightening his wig, he went next to his favorite chair.
“Ooney, mooney, nooney nill,
Tell me, arm-chair, what you will!”
chanted Wumbo, putting both hands in his pockets.