“We’ll both want brushing, won’t we, Harry?” she said, smiling.
It was true. For Harry’s jacket was altogether green, with the mould from the tree, and he had transferred a goodly portion of it to her velveteen jacket, while hugging her.
“Ha!” laughed Harry; “we are both foresters now, Guvie. What fun! All green, green, green.”
But Harry had given his governess a terrible fright, and she tried to make him promise that he would not climb trees again.
The boy held his wise, wee head to one side for a few seconds and considered.
“That wouldn’t do, Guvie,” he said. “But when I go up a tree you shall come with me. There now!”
“But, dear child, I cannot climb trees.”
“You could a beech?” quoth Harry.
“Well, I might a beech, a little way.”
“If you don’t climb a beech, I shall go a mile high up into a fir,” said the young rascal.