"I believe you would sing at your own funeral!" And Tom continued gayly: "Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main, For many a stormy wind shall blow, Ere the Rovers get home again!" "Tom lives on songs," said Sam slyly.

"He'd rather sing than eat a pie." "Pie!" thundered Tom tragically.

"Who said pie?
I haven't seen a home-made pie since--since--" "The time you went down in the pantry at midnight and ate two," finished Dick, and then there was a burst of laughter.
"Never mind, Tom, I'll make you half a dozen pies--when we get home," came from Nellie.
"Will you really ?" said Tom, and then he began once more, as gayly as ever: "You can give me pudding And give me cake, And anything else You care to bake; But if you wish To charm my eye, Just hand me over Some home-made pie!" "That's all right," said Dick.

"But in place of eye you should have said stomach." "Stomach doesn't rhyme with pie," snorted 'Tom.

"I'm a true poet and I know what I am doing." "Talking about pie makes me think of pie-plates," said Sam.