"Past Dr. H.'s?" I asked.
"Yes." And then I knew where I was.
First, however, I must let my new acquaintance show me his garden. His
name was G., he said. Most likely I had heard of him, for the
legislature was just then having a good deal to say about his sheep, in
connection with some proposed dog-law. Did I like roses? As he talked he
cut one after another, naming each as he put it into my hand. Then I
must look at his Japanese persimmon trees, and many other things. Here
was a pretty shrub. Perhaps I could tell what it was by crushing and
smelling a leaf? No; it was something familiar; I sniffed, and looked
foolish, and after all he had to tell me its name--camphor. So we went
the rounds of the garden,--frightening a mocking-bird off her nest in an
orange-tree,--till my hands were full. It is too bad I have forgotten
how many pecan-trees he had planted, and how many sheep he kept. A
well-regulated memory would have held fast to such figures: mine is
certain only that there were four eggs in the mocking-bird's nest. Mr.
G. was a man of enterprise, at any rate; a match for any Yankee,
although he had come to Florida not from Yankeeland, but from northern
Georgia. I hope all his crops are still thriving, especially his white
roses and his Marshal Niels.
In the lane, after skirting some pleasant woods, which I meant to visit
again, but found no opportunity, I was suddenly assaulted by a pair of
brown thrashers, half beside themselves after their manner because of my
approach to their nest.
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