"Is dot so?" Hans got up and looked around. "Vell, I neffer! Looks like ve got a colored snowstorm alretty, hey?" And this caused a roar. It certainly did look like a "colored snowstorm," for the confetti was everywhere, on the table, on their heads and over their clothing. Now it was over everybody was highly amused, even Mrs. Stanhope laughing heartily. As for Aleck, he roared so loudly he could be heard a block up the docks. "Dat's jess like Massa Tom!" he cried. "I suspicioned he'd be up to somet'ing afo' de day was up. Yo' can't keep him down no mo' dan yo' kin keep a jack rabbit from hoppin', no, sah!" "It certainly looked like the real thing," was Mr. Rover's comment. "Had it been--" "I'd never have brought it in here," finished Tom. "I'm sorry if I frightened anybody," he added, looking at Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. "We'll forgive you, Tom," answered Mrs. Stanhope, and Mrs. Laning said she would, provided he wouldn't scare them again that holiday. After that, the confetti on the table was cleared away and they ate their lunch amid a constant cracking of jokes and bright sayings. Songbird woke up and recited some verses he said he had composed the night before, while lying awake in his berth. Some of these ran in this fashion: "This is the day I love the best-- The day the small boy knows no rest,-- The day when all our banners soar, The day when all our cannons roar, The day when all are free from care, And shouts and music fill the air!" "Good for Songbird!" cried Sam. "Go on, please!" came from the girls, and the poet of Putnam Hall continued: "I love this land of liberty From mountains down to flowing sea, I love its cities and its plains, Its valleys and its rocky chains, I'm glad to know that we are free, And so forever may we be!" "Hurrah, Songbird, you ought to have that put to music," cried Dick. "Maybe I will, some day," answered the would-be poet modestly. "I dink I make some boetry up, too," remarked Hans, after several minutes of serious thought on his part. "Chust you listen vonce!" And he began: "Dis is der day ven crackers bust Und fill der air mid bowder tust, Und ven you shoots your bistol off, You make a smokes vot makes you cough. A rocket goes up in der sky-- Der sthick vos hit you in der eye!" "Three cheers for Hans!" shouted Tom, clapping the German lad on the back. "For real, first class A, No. 1, first chop poetry that can't be beat." And then as the others screamed with laughter Tom went on: "A little boy, A can of powder, A scratch, a flash-- He's gone to chowder!" "Oh, Tom, what horrible poetry!" cried Nellie, as she shivered. "Well, I couldn't help it," he said. "I had to say something or--or bust! Perhaps this will suit you better," and he continued: "A little boy, A great big gun, A father yelling On the run. The trigger falls, There is a roar. The father halts-- The danger's o'er."