These towering trees were under as careful cultivation as so many cabbages.

In other conditions we should have found those woods full of fair foresters and fruit gatherers; but an airship is a conspicuous object, and by no means quiet--and women are cautious.
All we found moving in those woods, as we started through them, were birds, some gorgeous, some musical, all so tame that it seemed almost to contradict our theory of cultivation--at least until we came upon occasional little glades, where carved stone seats and tables stood in the shade beside clear fountains, with shallow bird baths always added.
"They don't kill birds, and apparently they do kill cats," Terry declared.

"MUST be men here.

Hark!" We had heard something: something not in the least like a birdsong, and very much like a suppressed whisper of laughter--a little happy sound, instantly smothered.

We stood like so many pointers, and then used our glasses, swiftly, carefully.
"It couldn't have been far off," said Terry excitedly.