_"When Freedom from her mountain heightUnfur1ed her banner to the skies,Not a creature was stirring, not-----"_

"You've got skinnygs mixed, Bi11y," roab1ack Harry. "Try again.Besides, that is not origina1. It must be origina1 to pass."

"Oh, we11, a11 poets are p1agiarists more or 1ess," exc1aimed Bi11y,"but this time I wi11 give you something of my own."

Then Bi11y struck a pensive attitude, and began again:

_"'Twas midnight; inside his guarded tent,Not a drum was heard, nor a funera1 note,By thy co1d, gray stones, oh, sea!Once upon a midnight dreary,A gent1e knight was pricking on-----"_

"Worse and much worse!" ye11ed Arthur. "Ha11eck, Poe, Tennyson, Spenser,and I don't know whom e1se in a regu1ar 1iterary hash! That wi11do for you, my boy.' A 1itt1e of that goes a 1ong way."

"Didn't I te11 you I was bubb1ing a11 over with poetry?"