and the Bletherwitch
137
So let us sing a roundelay—
Pop goes the Weazel;
Treacle’s four pence a pound to-day,
Which we think will please all!
Pop goes the Weazel;
Treacle’s four pence a pound to-day,
Which we think will please all!
Again everybody danced and sang till the policeman told them to “move on,” when Jorumgander the Younger put up his shutters and went away.
“A most original man,” exclaimed the Zankiwank; “he ought to have been a postman!”
“A postman!—why?”
“Because he was always such a capital boy with his letters. He knew his alphabet long before he could spell, and now he knows every letter you can think of.”
“I don’t see anything very original in that,” said Willie. “There are only twenty-six letters in the English language that he can know!”
“Only twenty-six letters! Dear me, why millions of people are writing fresh letters every day, and he knows them all directly he sees them!