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The northern greenwood I have in mind has an old road threading its beechen aisles, each turn of which is marked as the former home of some small forester friend, [[strikethrough]] beastie or bird. [[/strikethrough]]

Just inside the wood a pair of Robins, forsaking the pomps and vanities of the world but still trusting in man, built their nest in a niche in a bole ^[[insertion]] so close [[/insertion]] beside the path you could put out your hand and touch it in passing. 

[[left margin insertion]] 2 plain realism [[/margin insertion]]

A snug protected house the oval knot hole made for them, for the ^[[insertion]] Robins [[/insertion]] clay cup rested in [[strikethrough]] her [[/strikethrough]] its proffered ashen saucer under ^[[insertion]] its [[/insertion]] [[strikethrough]] the [[insertion]] an [[/insertion]] [[/strikethrough]] arched roof and the ^[[insertion]] mother [[/insertion]] bird brooded [[strikethrough]] against [[/strikethrough]] beside the heart of the tree. 

In this quiet place the nest remained unharmed for many a season and even when it had crumbled away the sight of the [[strikethrough]] knot hole [[/strikethrough]] empty niche