Inga bowed, but made no answer. Then she turned to
Rinkitink and said:
"As for you, I cannot decide how to make you useful
to me, as you are altogether too fat and awkward to
work in the fields. It may be, however, that I can use
you as a pincushion.
"What!" cried Rinkitink in horror, "would you stick
pins into the King of Gilgad?"
"Why not?" returned Queen Cor. "You are as fat as a
pincushion, as you must yourself admit, and whenever I
needed a pin I could call you to me." Then she laughed
at his frightened look and asked: "By the way, are you
ticklish?"
This was the question Rinkitink had been dreading. He
gave a moan of despair and shook his head.
"I should love to tickle the bottom of your feet with
a feather," continued the cruel woman. "Please take off
your shoes."
"Oh, your Majesty!" pleaded poor Rinkitink, "I beg
you to allow me to amuse you in some other way. I can
dance, or I can sing you a song."
"Well," she answered, shaking with laughter, "you may
sing a song -- if it be a merry one. But you do not
seem in a merry mood."
"I feel merry -- indeed, Your Majesty, I do!"
protested Rinkitink, anxious to escape the tickling.
But even as he professed to "feel merry" his round, red
face wore an expression of horror and anxiety that was
realty comical.
"Sing, then!" commanded Queen Cor, who was greatly
amused.
Rinkitink gave a sigh of relief and after clearing
his throat and trying to repress his sobs he began to
sing this song-gently, at first, but finally roaring it
out at the top of his voice:
"Oh!
There was a Baby Tiger lived in a men-ag-er-ie --
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