Such a disreputable, out-of-elbow, cosmopolitan bear! His little eye-holes were screwed up in a wicked wink, a wink that repudiated any connection with his native waters of the Pole.
The house was very still.

Behind his yellow gauze curtain the canary stirred in his sleep.

"Swe-eet," he murmured plaintively in his dream.
"Swe-eet, dicky!" echoed Poppy.

Then because she had nothing to say she began to sing.

She sang the song of Simpson the tenor, Simpson the master of tears.
"'Twas on the night our little byby died, And Bill, 'e comes, and, 'Sal,' 'e sez,'look ere, I've signed a pledge,'ser 'e, 'agains the beer.
'D'ye see ?' Sez 'e.
'And wot I 'ope ter syve Will tittervyte 'is bloomin' little gryve.' Then--Well--yo' should 'ave 'eard us 'ow we cried-- Like bloomin' kids--the--night--the byby--died.
"That song," said Poppy, "doesn't exactly suit my style of beauty.