to it, they tear it ruthlessly up and carry it away. If by any chance a
root is left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth,
that there is small chance that it will survive. Probably, also, the
ravished clump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted,
either from neglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential to
its life; and the rare plant becomes yet rarer. Oh! without doubt they
love a wood. It gives more shade than the largest umbrella, and is
cheaper for summer entertainment than a tent: there you get canopy and
carpet, fuel and water, shade and song, and beauty--all gratis; and
these are not small matters when one has invited a large party of one's
acquaintance. There are insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb our
friends; and as they do not know which sting, and which are harmless,
they kill all that come within their reach, as a safe general
principle. The town boys, too! They know the wood--that is to say, they
know where the wild fruits grow, and how to chase the squirrel, and rob
the birds' nests, and snare the birds. Well, well, my children; to know
and love a wood truly, it may be that one must live in it as I have
done; and then a lifetime will scarcely reveal all its beauties, or
exhaust its lessons. But even then, one must have eyes that see, and
ears that hear, or one misses a good deal. It was in the wood that I
heard this story that I shall tell you."

"How did you hear it?" asked the children.

"A thrush sang it to me one night."

"One night?" said the children. "Then you mean a nightingale."

"I mean a thrush," said the old man. "Do I not know the note of one
bird from another? I tell you that pine-tree by my cottage has a legend