Our door was shut to the noon-day heat. We could not see him. We might not have heard him either— Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly. But his step was tremendous— Are mountains on the march? He was no man who passed; But a great faithful horse Dragging a load Up the hill.
I am four monkeys. One hangs from a limb, tail-wise, chattering at the earth; another is cramming his belly with cocoanut; the third is up in the top branches, quizzing the sky, and the fourth— he's chasing another monkey. How many monkeys are you?