It was uncultivated.
Some rows of tangled currant bushes offered excellent cover; there was
a fallen elm tree whose trunk was "home"; a pile of rubbish that
included scrap-iron, old wheel-barrows, broken ladders, spades, and
wire-netting, and, chief of all, there was the spot behind the currant
bushes where Weeden, the Gardener, burnt dead leaves. It was sad, but
mysterious and beautiful too, this burning of the leaves; though,
according to Uncle Felix, who gave the Gardener's explanation, it was
right and necessary. They loved the smoke, too, hanging in the air
above the lawn, with its fragrant smell and shadowy distances:
"Oh, Gardener! How can you let them burn?" "Because," he explained,
"they've 'ad their turn, And nobody wants their shade.
These withered-up messes
Is worn-out old dresses
I tuck round the boots
Of the shiverin' roots
Till the Spring makes 'em over
Like roses and clover--
But nobody wants dead leaves, dead leaves,
Nor nobody wants their shade!"
A deserted corner, yet crowded gloriously with life. Adventure lurked
in every inch. There was danger, too, terror, wonder, and excitement.
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