Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
By thy cold, gray stones, oh, sea!
Once upon a midnight dreary,
A gentle knight was pricking on-----"_

"Worse and worse!" yelled Arthur. "Halleck, Poe, Tennyson, Spenser,
and I don't know who else in a regular literary hash! That will
do for you, my boy.' A little of that goes a long way."

"Didn't I tell you I was bubbling all over with poetry?"

"You're a bubble yourself," laughed Harry, "and you'll burst if you
get too full of that sort of stuff."

"You wait till I really put my mind on it," said Billy with a droll
look. "You'll be surprised, my boys."

"We don't doubt that in the least," said Harry. "Why, I never
heard such poetry," chuckled young Smith.

"It actually makes me cry," said Arthur.

"You will be surprised when I take the prize," answered Billy,
taking all this chaff good-naturedly.

"Yes, I think we will be," replied Seymour. "Surprised is no name
for it. We will be actually thunderstruck."

"Oh, you boys are jealous," grinned Billy. "Shall I give you
another sample?"