"Then, for gracious' sake, turn on the spigot before you explode, Songbird," cried Tom. "Don't pen up your brilliant ideas when they want to flow."
"An idea just popped into my head," said the so-styled poet. "Now you have asked me, you have got to stand for it." And in a deep voice he commenced:
"The road is dusty, the road is long,
But we can cheer our way with song,
And as we ride with gladsome hearts—"
"Each one can wish he had some tarts," finished Tom, and continued:
"Or pies, or cakes, or ice-cream rare—
Good things that make a fellow stare!"
"Don't mention ice-cream!" cried Fred. "Oh, but wouldn't it be fine on such a hot day as this?"
"No ice-cream in this poetry," came from Songbird. "Listen!" and he went on:
"The road doth wind by forests deep,
Where soft the welcome shadows creep.
Down the valley, up the hill,
And then beside the rippling rill.
The welcome flowers line the way,
Throughout the livelong summer day,
The birds are flitting to and fro—"
"They love to flit and flit, you know," came from the irrepressible
Tom, and he added:
"The bullfrog hops around the marsh,
His welcome note is rather harsh.
The lone mosquito shows his bill,
And, boring deep, secures his fill."