Everything seems richer here than at home.
Of course it is.

You are here in the land of perpetual spring, where frost and snow seldom, or never comes.
Oh, look at the ferns under this rock! I must pick some.
Pick away.

I will warrant you do not pick all the sorts.
Yes.

I have got them all now.
Not so hasty, child; there is plenty of a beautiful fern growing among that moss, which you have passed over.

Look here.
What! that little thing a fern! Hold it up to the light, and see.
What a lovely little thing, like a transparent sea-weed, hung on black wire.