Part 15 (1/2)
”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.”
”Hold on, there!” came from d.i.c.k. ”I draw the line on mosquitoes in poetry. They can do their own singing.”
”And stinging,” added Fred gayly.
”Mape I vos make some boultry vonce, ain't it?” said Hans calmly.
”That's it, Hans,” cried Sam. ”Go ahead, by all means.” And the German youth started:
”Der sky vos green, der gra.s.s vos plue-- I sit town to an oyster stew; Der pirds vos singing all der night-- You vill get choked of your collar is tight!
Oh, see der rooster scratching hay-- Ven der pand begins to blay!
At night der sun goes town to ped-- Und cofers mid clouds his old red head!
At night der moon she vinks at me--”
”--for making such bad poetree!” finished Tom, and added with a groan: ”Hans, did you really make that all up by yourself?”
”Sure I did,” was the proud answer.
”You must have had to eat an awful lot of mince pie to do it,” put in Sam.
”Vot has mince bie to do mit boultry?”
”It's got a lot to do with such poetry as that,” murmured Songbird in disgust.
”Oh, I know vots der madder. You vos jealous of me, hey?”
”Sure he is jealous, Hans,” said d.i.c.k. ”Songbird couldn't make up such poetry in a hundred years.”
”It runs in der family,” went on the German boy calmly. ”Mine granfadder he vonce wrote a song. Da sung him py a funeral.”
”Did it kill anybody?” asked Fred.
”Not much! It vos a brize song. He got a dollar for doing it.”