A break in the tangled brush underwood had given him a peep down into a valley that seemed prettier than anything he had read of in a fairy tale. There was no rough rock, but a floor of soft moss. The most musical of rippling creeks trickled along the vale. No other sound was heard, for the very birds seemed afraid to disturb with their joyous notes the silence that dwelt there. There were no Gums, no Wattles, rising from this moss bed. Instead of these, Willie saw a lot of very odd looking trees. They were not very tall, for they rarely rose above 12 or 15 feet. The bark was unlike anything seen elsewhere. There were no branches, but at the top of the straight stem were several branch-like leaves, 8, 10, and 12 feet long, with such a graceful bend towards the valley. At the top of the stem, rising up from the place where the leaves sprang out, was a curious curling piece, with little shoots. The valley was full of these wonderful vegetable festooned pillars. Oh! Father! father! cried the boy, what are those beautiful trees down there? I never saw any like them before. They are Fern trees, my lad. Walk over and look closely at them. Willie trod upon the soft carpet, and thought it damp, as well as soft. The air, too, was so close, and felt so cold and raw, that he lost half his pleasure already. He could not help saying so to his father. Ah, my boy, said he, you are not the first to find nice things having something disagreeable about them when approaching nearer to them. Remember, that while roses have thorns, pleasures will have their drawbacks. Yes, I know I am often very tired after a pretty ramble, and rather queer after a pasty. True enough; there is only one place where happiness brings neither fatigue nor surfeit. But let us see what is the difference between one of these Fern trees and one of your old companions, a Gum tree. I can tell. One is like a tree with branches and so forth; but the other is not. Then the bark is quite different. I can see that the leaves of the Fern tree are like those of the common Fern, which is so troublesome in our sandy land, only they are a great deal larger. But there is a stranger difference still. Just take my axe and cut one of them down. I can soon do that. It is not nearly so thick as that Wattle I fetched down the other day with not a dozen cuts. Willie doffs his jacket, catches at the axe, and is at once dropping it in double quick time upon the Fern stem. A dozen blows were given, and another, and another, but the tree did not fall. Taking breath, and wiping his forehead, Willie murmured out:-- Well this is tough! it beats my Wattle, hollow. I declare if the axe don’t ring against it as if it were iron or glass. It is quite different from one of our trees, for that is rather soft at the outside, though it may get harder as we get towards the middle.