WwW. V.

but Littlejohn’s sheer imbecility in face of
the demand for a story was a sore trial to
W. V. After an impatient lesson or two,
the way in which he picked up a substitute
for imagination was really exceedingly credi-
table. Having spent a day in the “ Forest”
— W. V. could pack some of her forests in a
nutshell, and feel herself a woodlander of
infinite verdure — Littlejohn learned which
trees were “pappa-trees”’; how to knock
and ask if any one was in; how to make the
dog inside bark if there was no one; how to
get an answer in the affirmative if he asked
whether they could give his little girl a bis-
cuit, or a pear, or a plum; how to discover
the fork in the branches where the gift would
be found, and how to present it to W. V.
with an air of inexhaustible surprise and
delight. Every Forest is full of “ pappa-
trees,” as every verderer knows; the crux of
the situation presents itself when the tenant
of the tree is cross, or the barking dog inti-
mates that he has gone “to the City.”

Now, about a mile from Cloan Den, Little-
john’s house, there was a bit of the real
“old ancient” Caledonian Forest. There

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