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.

My feelings can therefore be imagined when I was roused from an
afternoon nap one warm summer's day by the voices of men and women.
Several possibilities came into my mind, and I imparted them to my wife.

"They may be keepers."

"They may be poachers."

"They may be boys birds'-nesting."

"They may be street-sellers of ferns, moss, and so forth."

"They may be collectors of specimens."