This novel is a sweet, sentimental, nature-filled story about the Magic of nature. But that seems to be as far as it ever goes: the plot is singular, the characters progressively dull, the animals and children overly innocent (why do ALL of the animals have to be orphaned and/or newborns?). If this book ended midway, I think I'd be more pleased. Nothing beyond is surprising or revelatory - the book simply dwindles into the reader's expectations and ends nicely and quite placidly.

About halfway through, the protagonist is almost entirely forgotten about (in place of an entitled lord and passing interest in various animals), the plot seemed to ramble on into a muddied brown pool, and everything becomes at once sentimental, repetitive, and didactic. Suddenly, the realism of the book veers into pseudo-psychology, where the Magical power of thought and words turns into several sermons about the power of a type of prayer, of wishful thinking.

Yes, I know, this book was written a century ago, but it veers far too close to religious appeals for bodily healing and transformation, and a far-outdated idea of nature (where it is at once revered for its "wildness", and yet anthropomorphized, even named solely for human use). Even though the characters seem to reject institutionalized religion, claiming to have not stepped into a church in years, their eulogy-esque chanting in the sacred halls of the gardens appears to replace one fixed belief with another.

This book becomes disappointing, even sloppy, which is entirely unfortunate given its very sweet beginning.