The sixth class were angry because we laughed at them, that they only now have to _make_ sentences, and we in the fourth class have begun to _write_ them already.

They made a song about us which runs: "'Of Upper Wood the boys They in their minds rejoice Because they think that they the cleverest are, But if ever they must fight They are in sorry plight And they turn round and run for ever so far.' "How do you like that song, Papa ?" "Well, that is such as Lower Wooders would make," said the father.
"And then," Edi continued, "we have made a song for an answer, that goes thus: "'And of Lower Wood the crowd They always yell so loud That they never, never stay within their den, For all dispute and strife They are much alive For they use their fists when they ought to use their pen.' "How do you like this one, Papa ?" "Just about the same.

And who has sung about the Middle Lot ?" asked the father.
"The Lower Wooders and we together; they too had to have a song, but the shortest, as it ought to be.

It runs so: "'And they of Middle Lot They all together plot That they are striving zealously for peace, But with quarrelling they never cease.' "And how do you like that, Papa ?" "They are, all three of them, kind of fighting songs, Edi," answered the father, "and I should prefer that you keep busy with your history studies, instead of taking sides in these party-fights.

One never knows where one comes out, and such poetry usually ends with lumps on the heads." Edi seemed much disappointed as he attacked his noodles with a visibly spoiled appetite.
"And what has been your experience, Sally?
Why are you so pensive ?" the father continued.
"Kaetheli was not at school," reported Sally, "and I had so much to talk over with her.