Sarah Brown was not altogether unfamiliar with the Parish of Faery, but she never failed to be surprised by the enchantment of the Enchanted Forest.  The Green Ride runs straight through it, so incredibly straight that as you walk along it the end of it is at the end of your sight, and is like a star in a green sky.  There is a dream that binds your mind as you cross the forest; it is like an imitation of eternity, so that, as you pass into the forest’s shade, time passes from before you, and, as you pass out of it, you seem to have lived a thousand quiet and utterly forgotten lives.  Clocks and calendars have no meaning in the forest; the seasons and the hours haunt it at their will, and abide by no law.  Just as the sun upon a stormy day makes golden a moving and elusive acre in our human woods, so the night in the Enchanted Forest comes and goes like a ghost upon the sight of lovers of the night.  For there you may step, unastonished, from the end of a day into its beginning; there the summer and the winter may dodge each other round one tree; there you may see at one glance a spring hoar frost and an autumn trembling of airs, a wild cherry tree blossoming beside a tawny maple.  The forest is so deep and so thick that it provides its own sky, and can enjoy its own impulses, and its own quiet anarchy.  There you forget that sky of ours across whose face some tyrant drives our few docile seasons in conventional order.

I think the Dog David in his own way shared the dream that leads wayfarers through the Enchanted Forest.  When he came out with Sarah Brown under the tasselled arch of Travellers’ Joy that crosses the end of the Green Ride, he was all shining and dewy with adventure, and his tail was upright, as though he were pretending that it carried a flag.

On an abrupt hill in the middle of an enormous green meadow a Castle stood, just as Richard had predicted.  It was To Let, and was not looking its best.  Some man of enterprise, taking advantage of its forlorn condition, had glued an advertisement upon its donjon keep.  You could almost have measured that advertisement in acres; it recommended a face cream, and represented a lady with a face of horrible size, whose naturally immaculate complexion was marred by the rivets and loopholes of the donjon keep itself, which protruded in rather a distressing way.

Oak trees stood round the foot of that pale hill, and the general effect was rather that of parsley round a ham.

Between two oaks Sarah Brown, following directions, found the beginning of the Daisified Path.  There were not only daisies all over the path but real violets on either side of it.  The daisies looked one in the face, but the violets did not, because they had morbidly bad manners.  Still of course manners are very small change and count for very little; the violet, being an artist, is entitled to any manners it likes, while the daisy has no temperament whatever, and no excuse for eccentricity.  Grasshoppers tatted industriously and impartially among the daisies and the violets.