would-be poet, and he began to read from the pad:
"In early Spring, when flowers bloom
In garden and on fields afar,
My thoughts go out to thee, sweet love,
And then I wonder where you are!
When pansies show their varied hues
And birds are singing as they soar,
I listen and I look, and dream
Of days when we shall meet once more!"
"Grand! fine! immense!" murmured Tom. "Byron couldn't hold a candle to that, Songbird!"
"I listen to the tiny brook
That winds its way o'er rock and sand
And in the running water see
A face that—that—that"
"Go ahead, Songbird!" cried Sam, as the would-be poet stumbled and halted.
"I—er—I had the last line, but Tubbs knocked it out of me," grumbled Songbird. "And say, he knocked something else out of me!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I was going to tell you an important bit of news."
"You were?" cried Dick. "What?"
"The word just came in over the telephone, from the weekly newspaper office. Doctor Wal-
