"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 grass 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 Dick. "Songbird couldn't make up such poetry in a hundred years."
