"You must be getting blind," growled John Powell, otherwise known as
Songbird. "Confound the luck-- you spoilt one of my best rhymes," he
added, as he stooped to pick up his writing pad.

"Sorry, upon my honor I am," returned William Philander. "Can I help
you out on it?"

"I don't think you can. Did you ever try to write poetry-- real
poetry, I mean?"

"No, my dear boy, no. I'm afraid I would not be equal to it."

"Then I don't see how you are going to help me," murmured Songbird,
and he passed on a few steps, coming to a halt presently to jot down
some words on his pad.

"Hello, Songbird!" called out Tom. "How is the Muse to-day, red-hot?"

For a moment John Powell did not answer, but kept on writing. Then his
face broke out into a sudden smile.

"There, that's it!" he cried. "I've got it at last! I knew I'd get it
if I kept at it long enough."

"Knew you'd get what, the measles?" asked the fun-loving Tom.

"'Measles' nothing!" snorted the would-be poet. "I have been writing a
poem on 'The Springtime of Love,' and I wished to show how----"