often envied. They were not plaster figures, old china, wax-work
flowers under glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind. They were her
old toys. Perhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the more
careful of those she had. She had certainly been very fond of them, and
had kept more of them than any one I ever knew. A faded doll slept in
its cradle at the foot of her bed. A wooden elephant stood on the
dressing-table, and a poodle that had lost his bark put out a
red-flannel tongue with quixotic violence at a windmill on the opposite
corner of the mantelpiece. Everything had a story of its own. Indeed
the whole room must have been redolent with the sweet story of
childhood, of which the toys were the illustrations, or like a poem of
which the toys were the verses. She used to have children to play with
them sometimes, and this was a high honour. She is married now, and has
children of her own, who on birthdays and holidays will forsake the
newest of their own possessions to play with 'mamma's toys.'

"I was roused from these recollections by the pleasure of getting into
the wood.

"If I have a stronger predilection than my love for toys, it is my love
for woods, and, like the other, it dates from childhood. It was born
and bred with me, and I fancy will stay with me till I die. The
soothing scents of leaf-mould, moss, and fern (not to speak of
flowers)--the pale green veil in spring, the rich shade in summer, the
rustle of the dry leaves in autumn, I suppose an old woman may enjoy
all these, my dears, as well as you. But I think I could make 'fairy
jam' of hips and haws in acorn cups now, if any child would be
condescending enough to play with me. "_This_ wood, too, had
associations.