them, that they only now have to _make_ sentences, and we in the fourth
class have begun to _write_ them already. They made a song about us
which runs:

"'Of Upper Wood the boys
They in their minds rejoice
Because they think that they the cleverest are,
But if ever they must fight
They are in sorry plight
And they turn round and run for ever so far.'

"How do you like that song, Papa?"

"Well, that is such as Lower Wooders would make," said the father.

"And then," Edi continued, "we have made a song for an answer, that goes
thus:

"'And of Lower Wood the crowd
They always yell so loud
That they never, never stay within their den,
For all dispute and strife
They are much alive
For they use their fists when they ought to use their pen.'

"How do you like this one, Papa?"

"Just about the same. And who has sung about the Middle Lot?" asked the
father.