r I have shown you) where
the rare fern grows--a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages.
_We_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move a
root it is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as much
mystery and circumspection as if we were performing some solemn
druidical rite. It is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of its
abode we keep faithfully secret. It will be thus held sacred by us
until, with all the seed its untouched fronds have scattered, and all
the offshoots we have propagated, it shall have become as plentiful as
Heaven intends all beautiful things to be. Every one is not so
scrupulous. There are certain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near my
cottage in the hot weather, and who tell each other that they love a
wood. Most of these good people have nevertheless neither eyes nor ears
for what goes on around them, except that they hear each other, and see
the cold collation. They will picnic there summer after summer, and not
know whether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. All birds
sing for them the same song. Tell _them_ that such a plant is rare
in the neighbourhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and it
will not long be their fault if there are any. Does any one direct them
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