minute," put in Dick.

"Then, for gracious' sake, turn on the spigot before you explode,
Songbird," cried Tom. "Don't pen up your brilliant ideas when they
want to flow."

"An idea just popped into my head," said the so-styled poet. "Now
you have asked me, you have got to stand for it." And in a deep voice
he commenced:

"The road is dusty, the road is long,
But we can cheer our way with song,
And as we ride with gladsome hearts--"

"Each one can wish he had some tarts," finished Tom, and continued:

"Or pies, or cakes, or ice-cream rare--
Good things that make a fellow stare!"

"Don't mention ice-cream!" cried Fred. "Oh, but wouldn't it be fine
on such a hot day as this?"

"No ice-cream in this poetry," came from Songbird. "Listen!" and he
went on:

"The road doth wind by forests deep,
Where soft the welcome shadows creep.
Down the valley, up the hill,
And then beside the rippling rill.
The welcome flowers line the way,
Throughout the livelong summer day,
The birds are flitting to and fro--"

"They love to flit and flit, you know," came from the irrepressible
Tom, and he added:

"The bullfrog hops around the marsh,
His welcome note is rather harsh.
The lone mosquito shows his bill,
And, boring deep, secures his fill."

"Hold on, there!" came from Dick. "I draw the line on mosquitoes in
poetry. They can do their own singing."

"And stinging," added Fred gayly.

"Mape I vos make some boultry vonce, ain't it?" said Hans calmly.

"That's it, Hans," cried Sam. "Go ahead, by all means." And the German
youth started:

"Der sky vos green, der grass vos plue--
I sit town to an oyster stew;
Der pirds vos singing all der night--
You vill get choked of your collar is tight!
Oh, see der rooster scratching hay--
Ven der pand begins to blay!
At night der sun goes town to ped--
Und cofers mid clouds his old red head!
At night der moon she vinks at me--"

"--for making such bad poetree!" finished Tom, and added with a groan:
"Hans, did you really make that all up by yourself?"

"Sure I did," was the proud answer.

"You must have had to eat an awful lot of mince pie to do it," put
in Sam.

"Vot has mince bie to do mit boultry?"

"It's got a lot to do with such poetry as that," murmured Songbird
in disgust.

"Oh, I know vots der madder. You vos jealous of me, hey?"

"Sure he is jealous, Hans," said Dick. "Songbird couldn't make up
such poetry in a h