Large ferns send up giant fronds to make cool shadows at one end. Tiny ferns busy themselves with the decoration of odd corners. A hazel bush reaches over and joins hands with the plum tree, to form a fitting roof to so lovely a dell; as I write—in February—it is a mass of fluttering catkins, and the plum tree is talking about shaking out a few flowers. But without these the place is already full of blossoms. In a month or six weeks the old trees in the orchard behind will be like bouquets of pink and white blossoms. You approach the grotto by a tiny path, about wide enough for a child; the entrance to the path is marked by a stunted old bush of lavender at one side, and a grey-green clump of sage at the other. They stand, with stems twisted and rugged like gnomes, guarding the entrance to the fairy’s playground; but if you rub them the right way they send up a lovely fragrance, and then you know you are admitted to the freedom of the enchanted spot. It is so sheltered in this corner, and protected from the cold winds by the high hill behind, that even the ferns from last year are green and fresh-looking, you would think there had not been any winter here. And the brambles that clamber over the orchard rail—assuring the world at large that they are a highly respectable orchard-grown fruit tree, and not a wild weed—are still green and crimson and a rich purple with the lovely tints of last autumn. The birds are fond of this grotto, and other wild things have found it out. Last summer, when the boulder seemed to be dripping with large juicy crimson honeysuckle berries, I watched a big bullfinch gorging to his heart’s content, his red waistcoat mingling well with the red of the berries. Mrs. Bullfinch was also there, in her less obtrusive grey and browny-black dress, and she had a couple of youngsters too. But do you think the father had any intention of sharing the delicacies? Not a bit of it! Every time his wife approached from the rear surreptitiously to snatch a berry, he turned round and drove her off (I really could have pardoned her if she had joined the suffragettes on the spot). She ranged her family along the orchard rail just above, and made various attempts to forage for them. But it was no use. So she took up her position beside the family on the rail and waited patiently, making plaintive sounds the while, till Mr. Bully had stuffed to repletion and flew away. I was glad there were a few hundred berries still left for the family. And didn’t they have a good time! Just now the blue tits are very busy about the fruit trees, and a robin comes out from somewhere in the grotto at unexpected moments and stands motionless on a stone, with a bright eye cocked up inquiringly at the human intruder. I fancy he has chosen it for his summer residence.