“But, I tell you what, Tony; it makes it almost worth while being away, it is so wonderful to come back. College is different, likable too; but it never takes the place of school. Though I must say, toward the end of the year I begin to feel myself caring for it as I didn’t in the least think I should. It’s rough at first, as I told you before, as you could see from my pretending it wasn’t last fall. But here—well, the heart’s at home here.”
Tony smiled his appreciation of the phrase. “Old chap, you do get your sentiments expressed now and then in perfectly good nice poetry, don’t you? I feel like that ever so often, but to save my life I can never find words that seem in the least to do justice to my thoughts.”
“Oh, well, that comes a good deal not only from feeling a thing, boy; but quite as much from the habit of hunting for the right phrase now and then, as old Jack used to tell us in Sixth English.”
Tony drew in the fragrance of the May flowers that a fresh breeze stirred. “Bully, isn’t it? This always was a favorite spot of yours, wasn’t it, Reg?”
“Rather—oh, the time I’ve wasted here, little one—scribbling verse and stuff, dreaming dreams that never came true!”
“You mooning here, poetizing—you must let me see your latest, by the way,—always remind me of those jolly verses in the Harrow Song Book—remember—‘Byron lay, lazily lay’?”
“More or less—mostly less; let’s have it.”
Tony essayed it in his clear voice.
“’Byron’ lay, lazily lay,
Hid from lesson and game away,
Dreaming poetry all alone,
Up-a-top of the Peachy stone.