"I love to glide,
By the green-clad side
Of the glassy lake,
And there to take
My ease with book
Or line and hook,
And spend the day
Far, far away
From care and toil,
On Nature's soil."
"Just to listen to Songbird!" cried Tom. "He grinds it out like a regular sausage-making machine," and then he went on gayly:
"I love to swim,
In Nature's soil,
By the green-clad side,
Of a mountain wide,
And there to bake,
My little toes,
On a garden rose,
And take a hose,
And wet the lake
With a hot snowflake,
In the middle of June—
If that isn't too soon—
And sail to the moon
In a big balloon—"
"Oh, Tom, let up!" roared Fred. "Talk about a sausage-making machine—"
"And when in the moon,
I'd drive a stake,
And tie my lake
Fast to a star,
Or a trolley car,
Then jump in a sack
And ride right back—"
"To where you belong,
And stop that song!"
finished Sam. "Oh, but that's the worst yet. Shall we duck him, Fred?"
"No, don't pollute the water," answered Garrison.
"He ought to be ducked," came from Powell, in disgust. "Whenever I have a poetic streak—"
"It's catching, as the fly-paper said to the fly," finished Tom. "Let's call it square and take a new tack. Who's in for a swim when we reach the end of the lake?"