“Oh, I—­ er—­ I beg your pardon, really I do, don’t you know!” stammered William Philander.

“Great Hannibal’s tombstone!” spluttered the other student.  “What are you trying to do, Tubbs, knock me down?”

“I beg your pardon, Powell, I didn’t see you coming,” answered the other, as he picked up his hat and commenced to brush it off with care.

“You must be getting blind,” growled John Powell, otherwise known as Songbird.  “Confound the luck—­ you spoilt one of my best rhymes,” he added, as he stooped to pick up his writing pad.

“Sorry, upon my honor I am,” returned William Philander.  “Can I help you out on it?”

“I don’t think you can.  Did you ever try to write poetry—­ real poetry, I mean?”

“No, my dear boy, no.  I’m afraid I would not be equal to it.”

“Then I don’t see how you are going to help me,” murmured Songbird, and he passed on a few steps, coming to a halt presently to jot down some words on his pad.

“Hello, Songbird!” called out Tom.  “How is the Muse to-day, red-hot?”

For a moment John Powell did not answer, but kept on writing.  Then his face broke out into a sudden smile.

“There, that’s it!” he cried.  “I’ve got it at last!  I knew I’d get it if I kept at it long enough.”

“Knew you’d get what, the measles?” asked the fun-loving Tom.

“‘Measles’ nothing!” snorted the would-be poet.  “I have been writing a poem on ‘The Springtime of Love,’ and I wished to show how——­”

“‘The Springtime of Love!’” interrupted Tom.  “That must be a second cousin to the ditty entitled ‘’Tis Well to Meet Her at the Well.’ "

“I never heard of such a poem,” answered Songbird, with a serious air.  “How does it go?”

“It doesn’t go, Songbird; it stands still.  But what have you got on the pad?”

“Yes, let us hear the latest effusion,” put in Sam.

“But not if it takes too long,” was Dick’s comment.  “I’ve only got about ten minutes before that lecture on ‘The Cave Dwellers.’”

“I can give Songbird six minutes,” said Stanley, as he consulted his watch.

“This is—­ er—­ something of a private poem,” stammered Songbird.  “I wrote it for a—­ er—­ for a personal friend of mine.”

“Minnie Sanderson!” cried Sam, mentioning the name of a farmer’s daughter with whom all were well acquainted, and a young lady Songbird called on occasionally.

“Read it, anyway, Songbird,” said Dick.

“Well, if you care to hear it,” responded the would-be poet, and he began to read from the pad: 

  “In early Spring, when flowers bloom
   In garden and on fields afar,
   My thoughts go out to thee, sweet love,
   And then I wonder where you are! 
   When pansies show their varied hues
   And birds are singing as they soar,
   I listen and I look, and dream
   Of days when we shall meet once more!”