She puts her hands down on the trunk and closes her eyes. She likes oaks -- for nut-trees, they're reasonably curious. They live so long and get so broad and tall that they see plenty; they know things about the deep earth and the sky. They do have a poor sense of the passage of time, but what else would you expect from something several hundred years old? "It is old," she says. "But it thinks the house hath been here all along. It remembers when it was an acorn, hidden under a bit of bark. It hath seen colder autumns than this one. It remembers the sun goes out sometimes here."

Then she starts laughing. "It thinks thou art a great squirrel. It's waiting for thee to bundle up a nest of leaves in its crown to stay warm. Wilt thou do that?"