“Sure. And it makes the April breeze to blow.”
“What’s wrong with you chaps?” asked Fudge perplexedly. The strange words struck him as dimly familiar but he didn’t yet connect them with their source.
“Fudge,” replied Way sadly, “I fear you have no poetry in your soul. Doesn’t the spring awaken—er—awaken feelings in your breast? Don’t you feel the—the appeal of the sunshine and the singing birds and all that?”
“You’re batty,” said Fudge disgustedly.
“Now for my part,” said Will Scott, “spring art, I ween, the best of all the seasons.”
“Now you’re saying something,” declared Way enthusiastically. “It clothes the earth with green——”
“And for numerous other reasons,” added Will gravely.
A great light broke on Fudge and his rotund cheeks took on a vivid tinge. “W-w-what you s-s-silly chumps think you’re up to?” he demanded. “W-w-where did you g-g-g-get that st-t-t-tuff?”
“Stuff!” exclaimed Way protestingly. “That’s poetry, Fudge. Gen-oo-ine poetry. Want to hear it all?”
“No, I don’t!”