In the Forest of Stone
F

OOKING down the vista of trees and

houses from the slope of our garden,

W. V. saw the roof and spire of the church

of the Oak-men showing well above the
green huddle of the Forest.

“Tt isa pretty big church, is n’t it, father?”
she asked, as she pointed it out to me.

It was a most picturesque old-fashioned
church, though in my thoughtlessness I had
mistaken it for a beech and a tall poplar
growing apparently side by side; but the
moment she spoke I perceived my illusion.

“T expect, if we were anywhere about on
a Sunday morning,” she surmised, with a
laugh, “we should see hundreds and hun-
dreds of Oak-girls and Oak-boys going in
schools to service.”

“ Dressed in green silk, with bronze boots
and pink feathers— the colours of the new
oak-leaves, eh?”