'Very good. I promised you that you shall see What you shall see, and you shall hear What you shall hear, though It shall have happened three thousand year; but just now it seems to me that, unless you go back to the house, people will be looking for you. I'll walk with you as far as the gate.'
'Will you be here when we come again?' they asked.
'Surely, sure-ly,' said Puck. 'I've been here some time already. One minute first, please.'
He gave them each three leaves--one of Oak, one of Ash, and one of Thorn.
'Bite these,' said he. 'Otherwise you might be talking at home of what you've seen and heard, and--if I know human beings--they'd send for the doctor. Bite!'
They bit hard, and found themselves walking side by side to the lower gate. Their father was leaning over it.
'Oh, splendidly,' said Dan. 'Only afterwards, I think, we went to sleep. It was very hot and quiet. Don't you remember, Una?'
'Late--late in the evening Kilmeny came home, For Kilmeny had been she could not tell where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.
But why are you chewing leaves at your time of life, daughter? For fun?'
'No. It was for something, but I can't azactly remember,' said Una.
_Of all the trees that grow so fair,_ _Old England to adorn,_ _Greater are none beneath the Sun,_ _Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn._ _Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs_ _(All of a Midsummer morn)!_ _Surely we sing no little thing,_ _In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!_
_Oak of the Clay lived many a day,_ _Or ever Æneas began;_ _Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,_ _When Brut was an outlaw man;_ _Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town_ _(From which was London born);_ _Witness hereby the ancientry_ _Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!_
_Yew that is old in churchyard mould,_ _He breedeth a mighty bow;_ _Alder for shoes do wise men choose,_ _And beech for cups also._ _But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,_ _And your shoes are clean outworn,_ _Back ye must speed for all that ye need,_ _To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!_
_Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth_ _Till every gust be laid,_ _To drop a limb on the head of him,_ _That anyway trusts her shade_ _But whether a lad be sober or sad,_ _Or mellow with ale from the horn,_ _He will take no wrong when he lieth along_ _'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!_