him, vaguely and a little
wildly. But, just as Sara was growing a little afraid of him, his
attention suddenly came back to her with a kind, businesslike
interest. "Need some repairs?" he asked. "Some fractured dimples,
maybe?"

"Yes, sir," said Sara, earnestly. "I have most of them here in my
hand." She opened her hand and showed him the pretty little pieces.

"Where's the rest?" he inquired, with another grin. "Your plump friend,
here, sitting on 'em?"

Sara nodded.

The Koopf stooped and picked up one of the gum-drops that had rolled
out of the Snimmy's vest-pocket. "Thought so," he said. "Happens every
now and then. Only lately there ain't been anybody here that was
dimpliferous, to speak of."

Then, suddenly, as if somebody had told him his house was on fire, he
turned and set off down the path as fast as he could run. "Bring 'em
to the shop!" he shouted back over his shoulder, excitedly. "Bring 'em
to the shop!"

While Sara was looking after him, and wondering where the shop might
be, and whether she dared try to get up without waking the Snimmy, the
Koopf suddenly stopped running, and started thoughtfully back up the
path toward her. "Don't know how I happened to forget it," he said,
"but I--well, fact is, I'm--where's a stump? Where's a stump?" He
looked hastily about him, and this time, seeing a stump near by, he
clambered upon it, thrust one hand into his bosom and the other behind
his back, like the pictures of Napoleon, and repeated, solemnly,

"I am Schlorge the Koopf, King of Dimplesmiths.

"Under the gright Gugollaph-tree
The Dimplesmithy stands;
The smith is harder than the sea
And softer than the lands;
He mends cheek-dimples frank and free,
But will not work on hands."

And as soon as he had finished he started wildly down the path again,
shouting back, "Bring 'em to the shop!"

Sara sat looking down the path, then at the dimples in her hand. "Well,"
she said aloud, "I'm glad they're cheek-dimples, anyhow. But what in
the world shall I do about the onions?"

"What in Zeelup," corrected the Teacup gently, counting her stitches.
"Milder than swearing, my dear, more becoming, and quite as
effective."

Sara wanted to tell her she wasn't swearing, but just at that moment
the wife of the Snimmy remarked, with some disgust in her voice,

"Well, if you'd of asked me sooner, I could of told you. I have them
in the sugar-bowl, of course. Do you suppose I'