Wolfe, Linnie Marsh
“Fern Lake,” although I never heard it called by that name. I have never forgotten it. I can see a distinct picture of it in mind right now that you have mentioned
it. It couldn’t be called a lake. It was too tiny. It was just a pool no bigger than a good-sized room, with a never failing cold spring in the bottom of it. It was in an unusual place for such a thing, not near a marsh, or a river. Just all alone in the heart of the deep woods of very great old oak trees. It was deep down, in a depression, and the sloping sides around it were these very tall royal osmundii ferns, almost as high as my head when I was a small girl. I think that must have been what my uncle [ ] meant. For I remember that he wanted my father not to let the cattle go near it, but let it remain wild just as it was. So it was never disturbed, while we were there.
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