"It's a jolly poor game," said Tommy—then holding out the wooden fork, with its pendant elastic.
"Have a try," he said.
The poet accepted a handful of ammunition.
"I must amuse the boy and enter into his sports as far as I may if I would influence his character," he said to himself.
Tommy stuck a clod of earth on a stick some few yards away, at which, for some time, the poet shot wildly enough.
Yet, with each successive attempt, the desire for success grew stronger within him, and when at last the clod flew into a thousand crumbs, he flushed with triumph, and had to wipe the dimness from his glasses.
Oh, poets! it is dangerous to play with fire.
Plop.
And another lusty rat held bravely out into the stream.
"Oh, get him, get him!" cried Tommy, jumping up and down. "Lend me the catty. Let me have a shot. Do buck up."