"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.

"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.