"Yes, that will do very nicely," said Dorothy; and the Highlander, clearing his voice, read off his poetry with a great flourish:
"There was a little pickle and he hadn't any name—
In this respect, I'm just informed, all pickles are the same.
A large policeman came along, a-swinging of his club,
And took that little pickle up and put him in a tub.
"That's rather good about taking him up," said the Highlander, chuckling to himself; "so exactly like a policeman, you know."
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Dorothy, who was ready to scream with laughter. "What's the rest of it?"
"There isn't any more," said the Highlander, rather confusedly. "There was going to be another verse, but I couldn't think of anything more to say."
"Oh, well, it's very nice as it is," said Dorothy, consolingly; and then, as the Highlander put up his paper and went away, she laughed till her eyes were full of tears. "They are all funny," she said at last, as she walked away through the wood, "but I think he's funnier than all of 'em put together"—which, by the way, was not a very sensible remark for her to make, as you will see if you'll take the trouble to think it over.
"'THERE ISN'T ANY MORE,' SAID THE HIGHLANDER, RATHER CONFUSEDLY."
But presently, as she strolled along, she made a discovery that quite drove the Highlander and his ridiculous poetry out of her head. It was a tower in the wood; not an ordinary tower, of course, for there would have been nothing remarkable about that, but a tower of shining brass, and so high that the top of it was quite out of sight among the branches of the trees. But the strangest thing about it was that there seemed to be no possible way of getting into it, and Dorothy was very cautiously walking around it to see if she could find any door when she came suddenly upon the Caravan standing huddled together, and apparently in a state of great excitement.