We had special trees too—good trees and bad trees, which seemed to us like people. There was one in particular, a very big one, which we called the Happy Tree, and that we loved the best.
Hugo had given it the name: lying on his back one summer’s day, his bare feet kicking on the moss:
‘On a drear nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne’er remember
Their green felicity . . .
Green felicity, Green felicity, Green felicity . . .’
he kept chanting the words, beating softly on the moss with his feet.
The pale green sunlight flickered through the world of beech leaves on to his face; his hands were clasped behind his head, and his dark blue jersey was open at the neck:
‘It is green felicity . . .’