"And he said to the Goat, 'Oo will walk about
here till I comes back.' And he went and he tumbled into a deep hole.
And the Goat walked round and round. And it walked under the Tree.
And it wug its tail. And it looked up in the Tree. And it sang a sad
little Song. Oo never heard such a sad little Song!"
"Can you sing it, Bruno?" I asked.
"Iss, I can," Bruno readily replied. "And I sa'n't. It would make
Sylvie cry--"
"It wouldn't!', Sylvie interrupted in great indignation.
"And I don't believe the Goat sang it at all!"
"It did, though!" said Bruno. "It singed it right froo.
I sawed it singing with its long beard--"
"It couldn't sing with its beard," I said, hoping to puzzle the little
fellow: "a beard isn't a voice."
"Well then, oo couldn't walk with Sylvie!" Bruno cried triumphantly.
"Sylvie isn't a foot!"
I thought I had better follow Sylvie's example, and be silent for a
while. Bruno was too sharp for us.
"And when it had singed all the Song, it ran away--for to get along to
look for the Man, oo know. And the Crocodile got along after it--for to
bite it, oo know. And the Mouse got along after the Crocodile."
"Wasn't the Crocodile running?" Sylvie enquired. She appealed to me.
"Crocodiles do run, don't they?"
I suggested "crawling" as the proper word.
"He wasn't running," said Bruno, "and he wasn't crawling.
He went struggling along like a portmanteau. And he held his chin ever
so high in the air--"
"What did he do that for?" said Sylvie.
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