"Well, it may be funny, but you gave us enough of a scare with your
gruntin' and your groanin'," said Grandma Padgett severely.

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