"Don't be so formal," said the tree. "Don't call me Mr. Tree. You've known me long enough to be more intimate."
"Very well," said Jimmieboy. "I'll call you whatever you want me to. What shall I call you?"
"Call me Stoopy," said the tree, softly. "Stoopy for short. I always liked that name."
Jimmieboy laughed. "It's an awful funny name," he said. "Stoopy! Ha-ha-ha! What's it short for?"
"Stupid," said the tree. "That is, while it's quite as long as Stupid, it seems shorter. Anyhow, it's more affectionate, and that's why I want you to call me by it."
"Very well, Stoopy," said Jimmieboy. "Now, about the apple. Have you got it with you?"
"No," returned the tree. "But I'm making it, and it's going to be the finest apple you ever saw. It will have bigger, redder cheeks than any other apple in the world, and it'll have a core in it that will be just as good to eat as marmalade, and it'll be all for you if you'll do something for me to-morrow."
"I'll do it if I can," said Jimmieboy.
"Of course—that's what I mean," said Stoopy. "Nobody can do a thing he can't do; and if you find that you can't do it, don't do it; you'll get the apple just the same, only you won't have earned it, and it may not seem so good, particularly the core. I suppose you know that to-morrow is Decoration Day?"
"Yes, indeed," said Jimmieboy. "Mamma's going to send a lot of flowers to the Committee, and papa's going to take me to see the soldiers, and after that I'm going over to the semingary to see them decorate the graves."