Stanley loves my roses. He shimmies past the thorny branches every morning before dawn, and spends a good hour or two among the sweet scents of the rose bed. As the local cockerel trumpets the start of the day Stanley plucks a rose, and leaps over the fence and out along the back fields. He tells me he takes the rose to give to his herd, a different one each day. But Basil Bluetit told me he often asks him to fix it onto his left antler to show his superior style to any visiting young bucks who fancy their chances.
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