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.
"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." "Very well," said the Professor.

"The girl lived in a dark and gloomy wood, through the leafy canopy of which the sunbeams were unable to pierce.

Now, what grew in this wood ?" He pointed to the fourth boy.
"Please, sir, trees, sir." "And what else ?" "Toadstools, sir." This after a pause.
The Professor was not quite sure about the toadstools, but on referring to the text he found that the boy was right; toadstools had been mentioned.
"Quite right," admitted the Professor, "toadstools grew there.