"Hurrah, Songbird, you ought to have that put to music," cried Dick.
"Maybe I will, some day," answered the would-be poet modestly.
"I dink I make some boetry up, too," remarked Hans, after several minutes of serious thought on his part. "Chust you listen vonce!" And he began:
"Dis is der day ven crackers bust
Und fill der air mid bowder tust,
Und ven you shoots your bistol off,
You make a smokes vot makes you cough.
A rocket goes up in der sky—
Der sthick vos hit you in der eye!"
"Three cheers for Hans!" shouted Tom, clapping the German lad on the back. "For real, first class A, No. 1, first chop poetry that can't be beat." And then as the others screamed with laughter Tom went on:
"A little boy,
A can of powder,
A scratch, a flash—
He's gone to chowder!"
"Oh, Tom, what horrible poetry!" cried Nellie, as she shivered.
"Well, I couldn't help it," he said. "I had to say something or—or bust! Perhaps this will suit you better," and he continued:
"A little boy,
A great big gun,
A father yelling
On the run.
The trigger falls,
There is a roar.
The father halts—
The danger's o'er."
"Tom, you're positively the worst boy ever!" said Nellie, but the way she spoke told she meant just the opposite.