Flying sunlight speckled the fluttered leaves, and gushed the cheeks of crippled boys who limped into the Gardens, till their pale Cockney faces shone with a strange glow.
In the Broad Walk, beneath those dangerous trees, the elms, people sat and took the sun--cheek by jowl, generals and nursemaids, parsons and the unemployed.

Above, in that Spring wind, the elm-tree boughs were swaying, rustling, creaking ever so gently, carrying on the innumerable talk of trees--their sapient, wordless conversation over the affairs of men.

It was pleasant, too, to see and hear the myriad movement of the million little separate leaves, each shaped differently, flighting never twice alike, yet all obedient to the single spirit of their tree.
Thyme and Martin were sitting on a seat beneath the largest of all the elms.

Their manner lacked the unconcern and dignity of the moment, when, two hours before, they had started forth on their discovery from the other end of the Broad Walk.

Martin spoke: "It's given you the hump! First sight of blood, and you're like all the rest of them!" "I'm not, Martin.