J. D. Matthews reminded of his recent tribulations, took up one of
his feet and began to groan over it again. He was as shapeless and
clumsy as a bear, and this motion seemed not unlike the tiltings of a
bear forced to dance.
"There you go," said Grandma Padgett. "Can't you tell how you came
in the cellar, and what hurt you?"
Mr. Matthews piped out readily, as if he had packed the stanza into
shape between the groans of his underground sojourn:
To the cellar for fuel I did go,
And there I met my overthrow;
I lost my footing and my candle,
And grazed my shin and sprained my ankle.
"The man must be a poet," pronounced Grandma Padgett with contempt.
"He has to say everything in rhyme."
Chanted Mr. Matthews:
I was not born in a good time,
I cannot speak except in rhyme.
"Ain't he funny?" said Bobaday, rubbing his own knees with enjoyment.
"He's very daft," said the grandmother. "And what to do for him I
don't know. We've nothing to eat ourselves. I might wet his foot and
tie it up."
Mr. Matthews looked at her smilingly while he recited:
I have a cart that does contain
A pana_seer_ for ev'_ry_ pain.
There's coffee, also there is _chee_,
Sugar and cakes, bread and hone-ee.
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