"Oh! Oh! We're all running to poetry," groaned Chet. "This will never do."

"'Poetry,' indeed!" scoffed Jess Morse. "I want to know how Lance dares
trespass upon Bobby's domain of limericks?"

"And I wish to know," Laura added haughtily, "how he dares intimate that I
am not 'a good looker'?"

"'_Peccavi!_"' groaned Lance. "I have sinned! But, anyway, Bobby is off the
limerick business. Aren't you, Bobby?"

"She hasn't sprung a good one for an age," declared Chet.

"A shortage," sighed Laura.

"Gee Gee says the lowest form of wit is the pun, and the most execrable
form of rhyme is the limerick," declared Jess soberly.

"Just for that," snapped Bobby, "I'll give you a bunch of them. Only these
must be written down to be appreciated."

She produced a long slip of paper from her pocket, uncrumpled it, and began
to read:

"'There was a fine lady named Cholmondely,
In person and manner so colmondely
That the people in town
From noble to clown
Did nothing but gaze at her, dolmondely.'