"More truth than poetry, you mean," Margy put in. "'Bum' doesn't rhyme with 'pun.'"
"It does, too," Artie insisted. "Doesn't it, Polly?"
"No, it doesn't," the honest Polly admitted.
Then Artie wanted to know what would rhyme with "pun" and they told him "gun" and "run" and "sun" and half a dozen other words.
"I'll make up some poetry," Artie announced brightly, and forthwith he occupied himself with the poetic muse, paying not the slightest attention to the chatter and noise that went on about him.
They passed through Wickware and drove out on the country highway again. It was hot and dusty for perhaps another half mile, and then they came to a group of magnificent willow trees, growing close to a little white bridge that spanned a creek. The water was low in the creek now, but the grass was thick and green on either bank and the shade offered by the trees was delightful.
"Here's our hotel," said Mr. Larue, as they came up with him. "That is, if we haven't lost the lunch."
"Why, Polly, what is that?" asked Mrs. Marley, as the children climbed out of the car. "I didn't put that box in."
"It's lunch. Mrs. Marshall gave it to us," Polly explained.
"More lunch!" groaned Mrs. Larue. "We have more now than we can eat."