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?"