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Words: 36111 in 32 pages
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you are," murmured Songbird and then continued:
"The lonely waters washed the lonely shore, Where they had washed full many a moon before, I listened pensively--not a sound Was there to break the tomblike silence all around!"
"Great mackerel, Songbird!" cried Fred. "Don't go on like that. It's enough to give a fellow the creeps!" But the would-be poet only continued:
"I listened for a single bird, But not a note my ear there heard, I looked up in the calm, clear sky--"
"And nervous enough was I to fly!" finished Fred, and went on: "Songbird, if you've got to make up poetry give us something cheerful. Can't you make up something about--er--about circus clowns, or apple pie, or--er--"
"Circus clowns or apple pie!" snorted the would-be poet, in deep disgust. "Well, you are the limit, Fred Garrison. No, I can't make up poetry about circus pie or apple clo--I mean apple clowns or circus, pshaw, you know what I mean--"
"I didn't mention mixed pickles," observed Fred, demurely. "But if you can mix--What's that?"
He stopped short and straightened up on the launch seat, and so did Songbird. Both had heard voices at a distance.
"They must be coming back," said Songbird. "It didn't take them long."
They listened, and set up a call, but no answer came back. Then they looked around searchingly.
"That's funny," murmured Fred.
"I don't think it's funny," was the low answer. "Something is wrong."
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