"Why, certainly," Billy rejoined. "Historical subject, eh? And one that occurred on the Hudson? Why, that's easy. Listen to this:"
Then Billy threw up his arms, gazed straight up into the sky, and delivered himself of his poetic thoughts as follows:
"When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her banner to the skies, Not a creature was stirring, not——-"
"You've got things mixed, Billy," roared Harry. "Try again.
Besides, that is not original. It must be original to pass."
"Oh, well, all poets are plagiarists more or less," said Billy, "but this time I will give you something of my own."
Then Billy struck a pensive attitude, and began again:
"'Twas midnight; in his guarded tent,
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
By thy cold, gray stones, oh, sea!
Once upon a midnight dreary,
A gentle knight was pricking on——-"
"Worse and worse!" yelled Arthur. "Halleck, Poe, Tennyson, Spenser, and I don't know who else in a regular literary hash! That will do for you, my boy.' A little of that goes a long way."
"Didn't I tell you I was bubbling all over with poetry?"
"You're a bubble yourself," laughed Harry, "and you'll burst if you get too full of that sort of stuff."