n the night came for the meeting, and took his
poem under his arm and lit a cigar that he'd borrowed of Mr. Man for the
occasion, and away he went.

The Hollow Tree people were on the lookout for him and had the rope down
and ready. So Mr. Dog tied it around under his arms, and they pulled and
pulled, and up he came. Then, when he got pretty close to the window,
they closed the shutter and put the rope through and pulled him up still
a little higher, so that he could reach the seat on the limb, which was
fixed just right for him to sit there and lean on the window sill while
he listened and looked in.

Of course, Mr. Dog wished he was inside, like the others, but he knew
why he wasn't, and he was glad enough to be there at all. He peeked
through the slats at the big room and smiled and said some nice things
about how pretty the room looked, till they all got real sociable with
him. Then Jack Rabbit called the meeting to order and made a few
remarks.

[Illustration: MR. RABBIT BOWED.]

He said the duties of his office had kept him from writing quite as long
and as good a poem as he would have liked to write, but that he hoped
they might be willing to hear what he had done. Then they all shouted,
"Yes, yes!" and "Hear, hear!" and Mr. Rabbit bowed first to the ones
inside and then to Mr. Dog outside, and began:

THE JOYS OF POETRY.

BY J. RABBIT.

Oh, sweet the joys of poetry
In the merry days of spring,
When the dew is on the meadow
And the duck is on the wing!
For 'tis then, from Dan to Dover,
I'm a rover 'mid the clover,
Seeking rhymes the country over
With a ring, sing, swing--
With a ding, dong, ding,
And a ting a ling a ling--
For I'm the rhyming rover of the spring.

Oh, sweet the joys of poetry
In the pleasant summer time!
For 'tis then I have no trouble
To compose my gentle rhyme;
In a nooklet by the brooklet
I can think up quite a booklet,
As with fishing line and hooklet
I assist the fish to climb
To the music of my chime,
For with rollick and with rhyme
I'm the poet of the pleasant summer time.

Oh, sweet the joys of poetry
When any days have come,
When the autumn zephyrs whisper
Or the winter breezes hum!
For 'tis then my thoughts unfurling,
While the smoke goes upward curling,
Come a whirling, swirling, twirling,
With a rumty, tumty, turn,
Come a twirling, swirling, whirl