“This is a beautiful country,” suggested Christopher. “It is all flowers. It is like the garden of—the garden of—locked up.”
“It is de—light—ful,” replied the self-compelled optimist sturdily. But here nature gave way; he was obliged to relieve his agricultural bile by getting into the cart and complaining to his sister. “'Twill take us all our time to cure him. He have been bepraising this here soil, which it is only fit to clean the women's kettles. 'Twouldn't feed three larks to an acre, I know; no, NOR HALF SO MANY.”
“Poor soul! mayhap the flowers have took his eye. Sit here a bit, Dick. I want to talk to you about a many things.”
While these two were conversing, Ucatella, who was very fond of Phoebe, but abhorred wagons, stepped out and stalked by the side, like an ostrich, a camelopard, or a Taglioni; nor did the effort with which she subdued her stride to the pace of the procession appear: it was the poetry of walking. Christopher admired it a moment; but the noble expanse tempted him, and he strode forth like a giant, his lungs inflating in the glorious air, and soon left the wagon far behind.
The consequence was that when they came to a halt, and Dick and Phoebe got out to release and water the cattle, there was Christopher's figure retiring into space.
“Hanc rem aegre tulit Phoebe,” as my old friend Livy would say. “Oh dear! oh dear! if he strays so far from us, he will be eaten up at nightfall by jackals, or lions, or something. One of you must go after him.”
“Me go, missy,” said Ucatella zealously, pleased with an excuse for stretching her magnificent limbs.
“Ay, but mayhap he will not come back with YOU: will he, Dick?”
“That he will, like a lamb.” Dick wanted to look after the cattle.
“Yuke, my girl,” said Phoebe, “listen. He has been a good friend of ours in trouble; and now he is not quite right HERE. So be very kind to him, but be sure and bring him back, or keep him till we come.”