ent. "For A, No. I, first-grade poetry apply to Songbird every time."
"There are sixteen verses in all," went on the poet, eagerly. "The next one begins"
"Sorry, there goes the supper bell!" interrupted Tom. "Come on, we've got to eat, even if we miss the finest poem in the universe."
"I—er—I didn't hear any bell," answered Songbird.
"You didn't?" cried Tom, innocently. "Well! well! Come on in and see anyway!" And he dragged the would-be poet along and forced him into a crowd of students. "Guess I was mistaken," he said soberly. "Too bad!" And off he ran, and Sam ran after him.
"Well, it wasn't half bad," said the youngest Rover.
"That's true, Sam," returned Tom, and then he added with a sudden broad grin: "But how about an egg that was only half bad—would you want to eat it? Some day Songbird may write real poetry—but not yet."
It was now ideal football weather and the football elevens, the regular and the scrub, were out daily for practice. Dick and Tom had been asked to play but both had declined, for they wished to pay attention to their studies, and the biplane took
