“Tell me,” said the Professor, encouragingly, “what it is all about.”
“Please, sir,” said the first boy—he spoke with bowed head and evident reluctance, as though the subject were one which, left to himself, he would never have mentioned,—“it is about a maiden.”
“Yes,” agreed the Professor; “but I want you to tell me in your own words. We do not speak of a maiden, you know; we say a girl. Yes, it is about a girl. Go on.”
“A girl,” repeated the top boy, the substitution apparently increasing his embarrassment, “who lived in a wood.”
“What sort of a wood?” asked the Professor.
The first boy examined his inkpot carefully, and then looked at the ceiling.
“Come,” urged the Professor, growing impatient, “you have been reading about this wood for the last ten minutes. Surely you can tell me something concerning it.”
“The gnarly trees, their twisted branches”—recommenced the top boy.
“No, no,” interrupted the Professor; “I do not want you to repeat the poem. I want you to tell me in your own words what sort of a wood it was where the girl lived.”
The Professor tapped his foot impatiently; the top boy made a dash for it.