The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of
Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the common, where the hedge-rows
go curving off into a sort of bay round a clear bright pond, the
earliest haunt of the swallow. A deep, woody green lane, such as Hobbima
or Ruysdael might have painted—a lane that hints of nightingales, forms
one boundary of the garden, and a sloping meadow the other; while the
cottage itself, a low, thatched, irregular building, backed by a
blooming orchard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks like
the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And so it is.