cheeks took on a vivid tinge. "W-w-what you s-s-silly chumps think you're up to?" he demanded. "W-w-where did you g-g-g-get that st-t-t-tuff?"
"Stuff!" exclaimed Way protestingly. "That's poetry, Fudge. Gen-oo-ine poetry. Want to hear it all?"
"No, I don't!"
But Will had already started declaiming and Way chimed in:
"O Beauteous Spring, thou art, I ween,
The best of all the Seasons,
Because you clothe the Earth with green
And for numerous other reasons!"
"I hope you ch-ch-choke!" groaned Fudge. "W-w-where'd you get it? Who t-t-told you"
"Fudge," replied Way, laughingly, "you shouldn't leave your poetic effusions around the landscape if you don't want them read." He pulled the sheet of paper from his pocket and flaunted it temptingly just out of reach. "'You make the birds sing in the trees'"
"'The April breeze to blow,'" continued Will.
"'The sun to shine' What's the rest of it, Fudge? Say, it's corking! It's got a swing to it that's simply immense!"
"And then the sentiment, the poetic feeling!" elaborated Will. "How do you do it, Fudge?"
48
