[Transcriber's note: The above paragraph is not an excerpt from a
longer work, but is complete as it stands.]

An old nonsense verse attributed to an Oxford student, is the well
known:

A centipede was happy quite,
Until a frog in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
This raised her mind to such a pitch,
She lay distracted in the ditch
Considering how to run.

So far as we know, Kipling has never printed anything which can be
called nonsense verse, but it is doubtless only a question of time
when that branch shall be added to his versatility. His "Just So"
stories are capital nonsense prose, and the following rhyme proves
him guilty of at least one Limerick:

There was a small boy of Quebec,
Who was buried in snow to his neck;
When they said, "Are you friz?"
He replied, "Yes, I is--
But we don't call this cold in Quebec."

Among living authors, one who has written a great amount of good
nonsense is Mr. Gelett Burgess, late editor of _The Lark_.

According to Mr. Burgess' own statement, the test of nonsense is its