"A rhyme," replied her wise sister, "is a jingle like this: 'A boy and a toy,' 'A goose and a moose.'"
"O, is it? how queer! 'A hill and a pill,' that's a rhyme, too."
"Now," continued Prudy, "I'll make up some real poetry, and show you how. It won't take me more than a minute; its just as easy as knitting-work."
Prudy thought for a few seconds, and then recited the following lines in a sing-song tone:—
| "When the sun |
| Had got his daily work done, |
| He put a red silk cloud on his head, |
| (For a night-cap you know,) |
| And went to bed. |
| He was there all sole alone; |
| For just at that very time the moon |
| (That isn't a very nice rhyme, but I can't help it,) |
| Was dressed and up, |
| And had eaten her sup- |
| Per. 'Husband,' said Mrs. Moon, 'I can't stop to kiss you good by; |
| I've got to leave you now and go up in the sky.'" |
"O, how pretty!" said Dotty; "how it jingles! Did you make that up in your own head?"
"Yes, indeed; just as fast as I could knit once round. I could do a great deal better if I should spend more time. I mean to take a slate some time and write it all full of stars, and clouds, and everything splendid. I shall say, 'What a pity it is that a nice husband and wife, like the sun and moon, can't ever live together, but have to keep following each other round the sky and never get near enough to shake hands!' I'll pretend that it makes the moon look very sober indeed, but the sun isn't so tender-hearted; so he can bear it better. O, Dotty, don't you let me forget to put that into poetry! I can jingle it off, and make it sound beautiful!"
"I should think you might put my verse into poetry, too. Can't you say 'a pill rolled down hill?'" said Dotty.
"O, I can make poetry of it easier than that. You don't need to change but one word:—
'There was a little boy going down hill,
He leaped, he foamed, he struggled;—and all was still.'"