“What fun we had there,” sighed Dorothy.
“Yea, verily! Ages and ages ago—when we were young,” sniffed Tavia. “Anyhow, the teacher asked Johnny to tell what an anecdote was. ‘A short, funny tale,’ says Johnny.
“‘True,’ says the teacher. ‘Go to the blackboard and write a sentence containing the word.’
“So Johnny did so,” chuckled Tavia. “He wrote: ‘A rabbit has four legs and one anecdote.’”
“Now, Tavia!” cried Dorothy, panting and laughing, too. “You know that is a made-up story. And I bet you stole it from somewhere.”
“Pshaw!” returned Tavia. “Where do you suppose all the funny people since Noah got their jokes?”
“Out of a joke-book published just before the Flood,” giggled Dorothy. “And you certainly must have a copy that you read on the sly.”
Just then the two girls, who had been all this time descending the hill, burst through a screen of bushes into an opening.
“Here we are!” cried Dorothy, with satisfaction.
“Hi! is this the place?” queried Tavia. “Of course it is!” she added, answering her own question. “There’s that scarred tree,” pointing to a lightning-riven pine across the glade.