"May I go into your wood?" asked I at a venture, curiosity conquering
pride.

"Well! what do you want there, my good fellow?"

"To see what a wood is like--I never was in one in my life."

"Humph! well--you may go in for that, and welcome. Never was in a wood in
his life--poor devil!"

"Thank you!" quoth I. And I slowly clambered over the gate. He put his hand
carelessly on the top rail, vaulted over it like a deer, and then turned to
stare at me.

"Hullo! I say--I forgot--don't go far in, or ramble up and down, or you'll
disturb the pheasants."

I thanked him again for what license he had given me--went in, and lay down
by the path-side.

Here, I suppose, by the rules of modern art, a picturesque description of
the said wood should follow; but I am the most incompetent person in the
world to write it. And, indeed, the whole scene was so novel to me, that I
had no time to analyse; I could only enjoy. I recollect lying on my face
and fingering over the delicately cut leaves of the weeds, and wondering
whether the people who lived in the country thought them as wonderful and
beautiful as I did;--and then I recollected the thousands whom I had left
behind, who, like me, had never seen the green face of God's earth; and the
answer of the poor gamin in St. Giles's, who, when he was asked what the
country was, answered, "_The yard where the gentlemen live when they go out