"Look here, Bo," he said gravely, "that sounds very pretty and may be very good poetry and true enough, but I wouldn't get to singing too much about jasmine and song birds and climbing roses if I were you, and especially girls. You are only a little boy, and besides, I can't see that there is any difference in girls, except that some are plump and some are not, and that isn't any difference to me, now," and the Bear sighed and strummed on his violin gently.
"Oh, pshaw, Ratio! There's lots of difference. Some girls are yellow and sour as a lemon, while some are as pink and sweet and blooming as a creole rose"——
"Bosephus," interrupted the Bear gravely, "you've got a touch of the swamp fever. Let me see your tongue!"
Bo stuck out his tongue.
"My tongue's all right," he grinned. "That kind of fever's in the heart."
Horatio looked alarmed.
"You must take something for it right away, Bo," he declared. "I can't have you singing silly songs about jasmine and cypress and girls in milk and honey. You know we haven't seen any honey since we left Arkansaw, and I'd travel all the way back there on foot to rob one good honey tree. I'm getting tired of so much of this stuff they call sugar and cane and the like."
"Why they have honey here, Ratio, too. I haven't seen any bee trees, but I've seen plenty of bees. I suppose they are in hives—boxes that people keep for them to live in."
"Where do they have those boxes, Bo?"
"Well, in their yards mostly; generally out by the back fence."