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Behind the house rises a thick wood,—a "solemn wood," such as Dickens loved to write of, with its lights and shades and every-varying tints. A gentle wind is rushing through it now; the faint murmur of some "hidden brook," singing its "quiet tune," fall upon the ear; some happy birds are warbling in the thickets. It is a day whose beauty may be felt. "Of the last time I heard any one sing," returns he, slowly. "I was comparing that singer very unfavorably with you. Your voice is so unlike what one usually hears in drawing-rooms." "I don't quite know," says Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Brian principally studies is—pigs!".
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"Where is your home?" asked the bear. "Why are you travelling so far alone?" "All things are calm, and fair, and passive; earth "She must be a great comfort to you," says Geoffrey from his heart. "By and by will suit me down to the ground," declares he, easily. "The day is fortunately warm: damp clothes are an advantage rather than otherwise.".
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