"'Tis grim, 'tis grim," the sorrowful object cried, lugubriously shaking from its forepart to an extremity. "Howso could it other be," it demanded. "Whyfor it beens," awailed companion sooth, "why not velvel feltstops, in a nocturne bath? In keepsakes, not as a marble bunyon acclimpsed." "Fromnist?" Could it not beckon the meen feanderings. "Arrow freems mourn harrowed field, and I not borrowing the watched imagining." "The watched imagining in deed, but not in name. Only the worrying fears of empty bottles," explained the sooth. "In truth, may only bottles capped, by an opener, no less." "Hrmmm, but why then, awakening felt," object could not demure. "In pain is kempt a hemlock, for obscure, and not fornistute its worrisome nature. The epitaths read mightily of future great mastications!" Sooth forsook, and thus it was that frambling bumped.