Because it is April, 'Spring! Spring!'"

"That _is_ a nice one!" Kirk agreed. "It sounds real. I don't know how
you can do it."

A faint clapping was heard from the direction of the house, and turning,
Ken saw his sister dropping him a curtsey at the door. "That," she said,
"is a poem, not a pome--a perfectly good one."

"Go 'way!" shouted Ken. "You're a wicked interloper. And you don't even
know why Kirk and I write pomes about toads, so you don't!"

"I never could see," Ken remarked that night, "why people are so keen
about beds of roses. If you ask me, I should think they'd be uncommon
prickly and uncomfortable. Give me a bed of herbs--where love is, don't
you know?"

"It wasn't a bed of herbs," Felicia contended; "it was a dinner of
them. This isn't herbs, anyway. And think of the delectable smell of
the bed of roses!"

"But every rose would have its thorn," Ken objected. "No, no, 'herbs' is
preferable."

This argument was being held during the try-out of the grass beds in the
living-room.

"See-saw, Margery Daw,
She packed up her bed and lay upon straw,"