The breezes whispered strange secrets of elf-haunted glens, and the hollows where the ferns grew were brimmed with mystery and romance.

Ghostlike scents crept out of the meadows to meet us, and the fir wood before we came to the church was a living sweetness of Junebells growing in abundance.
Junebells have another and more scientific name, of course.

But who could desire a better name than Junebells?
They are so perfect in their way that they seem to epitomize the very scent and charm of the forest, as if the old wood's daintiest thoughts had materialized in blossom; and not all the roses by Bendameer's stream are as fragrant as a shallow sheet of Junebells under the boughs of fir.
There were fireflies abroad that night, too, increasing the gramarye of it.

There is certainly something a little supernatural about fireflies.
Nobody pretends to understand them.

They are akin to the tribes of fairy, survivals of the elder time when the woods and hills swarmed with the little green folk.