"Oh, some day you will be a celebrated poet."

"I think I have got to do something more substantial than write
poetry."

"Well, it all depends on the brand of poetry, Songbird." And Tom began
to grin. "There are some fellows who make big money at it."

"I'd like to know who they are?" questioned the would-be poet,
eagerly.

"The fellows who write up some new brand of safety razor or breakfast
food."

"Tom!" And Songbird looked positively hurt. "How can you be so cruel
and degrade poetry so?"

"Well, they do it, I don't. Now, if you----" Tom brought his words to
a sudden stop, and commenced to stare out of the window. Far over the
distant wood he had seen a strange light. Now it was increasing
rapidly.

"What is it? What do you see?" demanded Songbird, as he realized that
something unusual had attracted his chum's attention.

"Look there!" cried Tom, pointing with his finger. "Doesn't that look
like a fire?"

"It surely does," replied the other, after a hasty inspection. "But it
may be only some brush heap that a farmer is getting rid of."