“Please, sir, it was the usual sort of a wood.”
“Tell him what sort of a wood,” said he, pointing to the second lad.
The second boy said it was a “green wood.” This annoyed the Professor still more; he called the second boy a blockhead, though really I cannot see why, and passed on to the third, who, for the last minute, had been sitting apparently on hot plates, with his right arm waving up and down like a distracted semaphore signal. He would have had to say it the next second, whether the Professor had asked him or not; he was red in the face, holding his knowledge in.
“A dark and gloomy wood,” shouted the third boy, with much relief to his feelings.
“A dark and gloomy wood,” repeated the Professor, with evident approval. “And why was it dark and gloomy?”
The third boy was still equal to the occasion.
“Because the sun could not get inside it.”
The Professor felt he had discovered the poet of the class.
“Because the sun could not get into it, or, better, because the sunbeams could not penetrate. And why could not the sunbeams penetrate there?”
“Please, sir, because the leaves were too thick.”