“Ah!” said George with a sigh, “this chat puts me in mind of 'The Grove.' Do you mind how you used to pester everybody to go out to California?”
“Yes! and I wish we were there now.”
“And all your talk used to be gold—gold—gold.”
“As well say it as think it.”
“That is true. Well, we shall be very busy all day to-morrow, but in the afternoon dig for gold an hour or two—then you will be satisfied.”
“But it is no use digging here; it was full five-and-twenty miles from here the likely-looking place.”
“Then why didn't you stop me at the place?”
“Why?” replied Robinson, sourly, “because his reverence did so snub me whenever I got upon that favorite topic, that I really had got out of the habit. I was ashamed to say, 'George, let us stop on the road and try for gold with our finger-nails.' I knew I should only get laughed at.”
“Well,” said George sarcastically, “since the gold mine is twenty-five miles off, and our work is round about the door, suppose we pen sheep to-morrow—and dig for gold when there is nothing better to be done.”
Robinson sighed. Unbucolical to the last degree was the spirit in which our Bohemian tended the flocks next morning.