"He grinds it out like a regular sausage-making machine," and then he went on gayly: "I love to swim, In Nature's soil, By the green-clad side, Of a mountain wide, And there to bake, My little toes, On a garden rose, And take a hose, And wet the lake With a hot snowflake, In the middle of June-- If that isn't too soon-- And sail to the moon In a big balloon--" "Oh, Tom, let up!" roared Fred.

"Talk about a sausage-making machine--" "And when in the moon, I'd drive a stake, And tie my lake Fast to a star, Or a trolley car, Then jump in a sack And ride right back--" "To where you belong, And stop that song!" finished Sam.

"Oh, but that's the worst yet.

Shall we duck him, Fred ?" "No, don't pollute the water," answered Garrison.
"He ought to be ducked," came from Powell, in disgust.

"Whenever I have a poetic streak--" "It's catching, as the fly-paper said to the fly," finished Tom.