No one never comin' near an' tangles o' trees an' roses to build in.

I wonder all th' birds on th' moor don't build here." Mistress Mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it.
"Will there be roses ?" she whispered.

"Can you tell?
I thought perhaps they were all dead." "Eh! No! Not them--not all of 'em!" he answered.

"Look here!" He stepped over to the nearest tree--an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches.

He took a thick knife out of his Pocket and opened one of its blades.
"There's lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said.