The scent of the hay is for ever in the nostrils, the hedges are thick with wild honeysuckle, so deliciously fragrant, the last of the June roses are lingering to do their share, and blackberry blossoms and ripening fruit as well.
I have never known a place in which it is so easy to be good.

I have not said a word, nor scarcely harboured a thought, that was not lovely and virtuous since I entered these gates, and yet there are those who think me fantastic, difficult, hard to please, unreasonable! {The last of June: p93.jpg} I believe the saints must have lived in the country mostly (I am certain they never tried Hydropathic hotels), and why anybody with a black heart and natural love of wickedness should not simply buy a poultry farm and become an angel, I cannot understand.
{A place in which it is so easy to be good: p94.jpg} Living with animals is really a very improving and wholesome kind of life, to the person who will allow himself to be influenced by their sensible and high-minded ideals.

When you come to think about it, man is really the only animal that ever makes a fool of himself; the others are highly civilised, and never make mistakes.

I am going to mention this when I write to somebody, sometime; I mean if I ever do.

To be sure, our human life is much more complicated than theirs, and I believe when the other animals notice our errors of judgment they make allowances.