's neck
and stood upon solid ground again.

"Don't mention it," said the Flamingo. "It's a pleasure to serve a
bird-defender and his friends," and with this he soared away.

"I'm glad he didn't ask me if I ever ate broiled chicken for Sunday
breakfast," said Tom.

"Why?" asked the Poker. "Do you?"

"Do I?" cried Tom. "Well, I guess. I don't do anything else."

CHAPTER X.

Home Again

"And now," said the Lefthandiron as the Flamingo flew off and left them to
themselves, "it strikes me that it is time we set about having some
supper. I'm getting hungry, what with the excitement of that ride, and the
fact I haven't eaten anything but a bowlful of kindling wood since
yesterday morning."

"I'm with you there," said Tom. "I've been hungry ever since we started
and that snow on the moon whetted my appetite."

"Never knew a boy who wasn't hungry on all occasions," puffed the Bellows.
"Fact is, a boy wouldn't be a real boy unless he was hungry. Did you ever
know a boy that would confess he'd had enough to eat, Pokey?"

"Once," said Poker, "I wrote a poem about him, but I never could get it
published. Want to hear it?"

"Very much," said Tom.

"Well, here goes," said the Poker anxiously, and he recited the following
lines:

THE WONDROUS STRIKE OF SAMMY DIKE.

Young Sammy Dike was a likely boy
Who lived somewhere in Illinois,
His father was a blacksmith, and
His Ma made pies for all the land.
The pies were all so very fine
That folks who sought them stood in line
Before the shop of Dike & Co.,
'Mid passing rain, in drifting snow,
For fear they'd lose the tasty prize
Of "Dike's new patent home-made pies."
One day, alas, poor Mrs. Dike,
Who with her pies had made the strike,
By overwork fell very ill,
And all her orders could not fill.
So ill was she she could not bake
One-half the pastry folks would take;
And so her loving husband said
He'd take her place and cook, instead
Of making horse-shoes. Kindly Joe,
To help his wife in time of woe!
He worked by night, he worked by day--
Yet worked, alas, in his own way
And made such pies, I've understood,
As but a simple blacksmith could.
He made them hard as iron bars;
He made them tough as trolley cars.
He seemed to think a pie's estate
Was to be used as armor plate.
And not a pie would he let go
That had not stood the sledge's