He did not wonder why Flockley and Koswell were so anxious to call upon her.
Roaming through the woods caused Songbird to become poetic, and while they rested in the sunshine, and picked some of the nuts that Tom and Sam had cracked, he recited some verses composed on the spur of the moment: "Hark to the silence all around! The well-trained ear doth hear no sound.
The birds are silent in their nest, All tired Nature is at rest.
The brook in silence finds its way From shadows deep to perfect day.
The wind is dead, there is no breeze--" "To make a fellow cough and sneeze!" murmured Tom, and gave a loud ker-chew! that set all the girls to laughing.
"That isn't right!" declared Songbird half angrily.

"There is no sneeze in this poem," "Oh, excuse me.

I only thought I'd help you out," answered Tom soberly.

And then the would-be poet continued: "The wind is dead, there is no breeze To stir the bushes or the trees.
Full well I know, as here I stand, That Solitude commands the land!" "Good! Fine! Immense! Great!" cried Sam enthusiastically.

"Hurrah for Solitude!" "Why, Mr.Powell, you are a real poet," said one of the girls gravely.
And this pleased Songbird greatly.
"You'll have to write in my autograph album," said another, and the would-be poet readily consented.