it is such a lovely lane. i call it our lane. of course, it doesn't belong to brave horatius and lars porsena of clusium and thomas chatterton jupiter zeus and i and all the rest of us. it belongs to a big man that lives in a big house, but it is our lane more than it is his lane, because he doesn't know the grass and flowers that grow there, and the birds that nest there, and the lizards that run along the fence, and the caterpillars and beetles that go walking along the roads made by the wagon wheels. and he doesn't stop to talk to the trees that grow all along the lane.