He went to the next room. As he opened the door he saw Songbird, with his back toward him. The so-styled poet was waving his arms in the air and declaiming:
"The weeping winds were whispering through the wood,
The rolling rill ran 'round the ragged rock;
The shepherd, with his sunny, smiling face,
Was far away to feed his flitting flock.
Deep in the dingle, dank and dark—"
"I thought I heard an old crow bark!" finished Tom. "Say, Songbird, how much is that poetry by the yard—or do you sell it by the ton?" he went on.
At the sound of Tom's voice the would-be poet gave a start. But he quickly recovered. He scowled for a moment and then took on a look of resignation.
"You've spoiled one of the best thoughts I ever had," he said.
"Don't you believe it, Songbird," answered Tom. "I've heard you make up poetry worth ten times that. Don't you remember that little sonnet you once composed, entitled 'Who Put Ink in Willie's Shoes?' It was great, grand, sublime!"
"I never wrote such a sonnet!" cried Songbird. "Ink in shoes, indeed!
Tom, you don't know real poetry when you see it!"
"That's a fact, I don't. But, say, what's on the carpet, as the iceman said to the thrush?"
"Nothing. I thought I'd write a few verses, that's all. Thought you were going to town with Sam and Dick?"
"Can't." And once again Tom had to tell his story. He had not yet finished when Songbird gave an exclamation.