Our favorite place is Herne Wood.

It is rich in material for the botanist, and it is only a mile distant from the village in which I live.
Early in July, my friend and I made a discovery in the wood of a very alarming and unexpected kind.

We found a man in the clearing, prostrated by a dangerous wound, and to all appearance dead.
We carried him to the gamekeeper's cottage on the outskirts of the woods, and on the side of it nearest to our village.

He and his boy were out, but the light cart in which he makes his rounds, in the remoter part of his master's property, was in the outhouse.

While my friend was putting the horse to, I examined the stranger's wound.