She walked the few paces which separated her from it and turning, stood leaning against the broken gate now, drinking in every tone of the patches the lowered sun made of gold between the green.

For her it was full of wood nymphs and elves.

It did not contain gods and goddesses like the others.

She told herself long stories about them.
The beech avenue was her favorite for the spring, the lime for the summer, the chestnut for the autumn, and the oak for the winter.

She knew every tree in all four, as a huntsman knows his hounds.