"Dis is der day ven crackers bust
Und fill der air mid bowder tust,
Und ven you shoots your bistol off,
You make a smokes vot makes you cough.
A rocket goes up in der sky—
Der sthick vos hit you in der eye!"
"Three cheers for Hans!" shouted Tom, clapping the German lad on the back. "For real, first-class A, No. 1, first-chop poetry that can't be beat." And then as the others screamed with laughter Tom went on:
"A little boy,
A can of powder,
A scratch, a flash—
He's gone to chowder!"
"Oh, Tom, what horrible poetry!" cried Nellie, as she shivered.
"Well, I couldn't help it," he said. "I had to say something or—or bust! Perhaps this will suit you better," and he continued:
"A little boy,
A great big gun,
A father yelling
On the run.
The trigger falls,
There is a roar.
The father halts—
The danger's o'er."
