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“Dere f’om de flowin’ bowl
Deep derinks de worrior’s soul,
Skool—”
“No,” said another voice — Miss Berrith’s!
“Skull,” ventured Darius, after a pause.
“No,” said Miss Berrith again. “Say the whole line. What rhymes with ‘soul’?”
“Skoal!” exclaimed Darius triumphantly.
“Skoal to de Nort’lan’! Skoal!
Duss de tale entit.”
“I can’t never remember dat woid. Miss Berrit’.”
“You did very well,” said Miss Berrith’s voice, “but it is time you were off for dinner. Don’t be late for work this afternoon. Good-bye, Darius.”
“Gubbye, Miss Berrit’,” answered Darius, with very evident regret, and, shortly, there followed the crackle of trampled twigs, and then, from a greater distance the sound of
