before the boys were ready to leave home, came a letter from Songbird Powell.
"I'll bet it's in verse," said Dick. "Songbird couldn't write prose to save his life."
"We'll soon see," said Sam, who held the communication, and he tore it open. "You win," he added, and then read the following, after the date line:
"My dearest boys
I'm filled with joys
To think that we
Together shall be
In a week or more!
Oh, the fun in store!
And also the work—
Which we can't shirk—
And the pleasant meetings,
And pleasant greetings,"
"He was thinking of Minnie Sanderson when he wrote that," interrupted Tom.
"Sure thing," returned Dick; for all of the Rovers knew that the would-be poet was deeply smitten with the farmer's daughter. He had written several poems about her, and had also given her several presents.
"Well, there are twelve pages of the doggerel," said Sam, glancing over the sheets. "Here, you can read over my shoulders," and this was done, amid much merriment. Songbird had but little
