"A mammoth!" bawled Professor Smawl, triumphantly; "and I'm going to
photograph him!"

Neither Dorothy nor I believed her. We watched the flight of the
infatuated woman in silence.

And now, at last, the tragic shadow falls over my paper as I write. I
was never passionately attached to Professor Smawl, yet I would gladly
refrain from chronicling the episode that must follow if, as I have
hitherto attempted, I succeed in sticking to the unornamented truth.

I have said that neither Dorothy nor I believed her. I don't know why,
unless it was that we had not yet made up our minds to believe that
the mammoth still existed on earth. So, when Professor Smawl
disappeared in the forest, scuttling through the underbrush like a
demoralized hen, we viewed her flight with unconcern. There was a
large tree in the neighborhood--a pleasant shelter in case of rain. So
we sat down behind it, although the sun was shining fiercely.

It was one of those peaceful afternoons in the wilderness when the
whole forest dreams, and the shadows are asleep and every little
leaflet takes a nap. Under the still tree-tops the dappled sunlight,
motionless, soaked the sod; the forest-flies no longer whirled in
circles, but sat sunning their wings on slender twig-tips.

The heat was sweet and spicy; the sun drew out the delicate essence
of gum and sap, warming volatile juices until they exhaled through the
aromatic bark.