I even searched for and found trees which grew on the Dark Continent. . . .
How green and sweet the grass was! (Better than the carpet in the office.) I sat down on it and then turned over and lay with my chin resting in cupped hands. Through half-closed eyes, I studied the largest of the islands in the pond and speculated as to whether anyone—other than the unappreciative officials—had ever ventured into its jungle-like foliage.
A little black duck came out from one of the miniature bays in the island, dived, and reappeared a dozen yards further out. It dived again; and I pictured it beneath the green water, searching for fat worms in the mud at the bottom.
"The open-air and—freedom!" I thought. "How good it is to be alive!"
Another pipe of tobacco gone!
When I had refilled it, I got up and crossed over to one of the drinking fountains and swallowed a great draught of ice cold water. (The water is wonderful at Kew! So clear and fresh and cold!)
I visited the green-houses and hot-houses. Still more visions of Africa. . . . The heat was a little stifling, perhaps; but, who cared?
I spent over a quarter of an hour in the orchid house—until the attendants apparently grew suspicious and the perfume half intoxicated me.
Then, the open air again and still another pipe!
It was now eleven o'clock and the sun shone from a cloudless blue sky—the same old sun that I should see in Gaboon and through the tree tops of the African forests. . . . (A strange but comforting thought, that—how the dear old sun follows its children into the uttermost parts of the earth. Thank Heaven gorillas didn't live at the North Pole! I hated cold.)