Explore "Bonnie Prince Fetlar" by Marshall Saunders on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
My young master crouched his head down to stare through the underbrush, and I stared over his shoulders.
What a sitting room! Enormous elms were the door-posts, climbing bittersweet flinging itself from one lofty branch to another was the ceiling; fallen logs and twisted tree limbs were the arm-chairs; delicate river grass cut short was the carpet, and a huge wisp of rushes hanging down into the river was the hearth-rug.