But it was not the abundant and varied supply of food which had
determined my choice of our home: it was not even because no woodland
bower could be more beautiful,--because the coppice foliage was fresh
and tender overhead, and the old leaves soft and elastic to the prickles
below,--because the young oaks sheltered us behind, and we had a
charming outlook over the brook in front, between a gnarled alder and a
young sycamore, whose embracing branches were the lintel of our doorway.
No. I chose this particular spot in this particular wood, because I had
reason to believe it to be a somewhat neglected bit of what men call
"property,"--because the bramble bushes were unbroken, the fallen leaves
untrodden, the hyacinths and ragged-robins ungathered by human feet and
hands,--because the old fern-fronds faded below the fresh green
plumes,--because the violets ripened seed,--because the trees were
unmarked by woodmen and overpopulated with birds, and the water-rat sat
up in the sun with crossed paws and without a thought of
danger,--because, in short, no birds'-nesting, fern-digging,
flower-picking, leaf-mould-wanting, vermin-hunting creatures ever came
hither to replenish their ferneries, gardens, cages, markets, and
museums.
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