"Oh, dear no!" replied Miss Whitcom, with a vehemence which served to remind them all that she had been a pioneer in the cactus candy business and knew what she was talking about.
Even the Rev. Needham contributed something to his younger daughter's enlightenment. "There are lots of trees along the irrigation ditches. Barry, what kind of trees are they? I never can seem to remember."
"Cottonwood, mostly," he answered. "The foliage is a very delicate green."
"Oh, it must be lovely!" sighed Hilda, who romantically saw herself walking along beside Leslie beneath an everlasting row of the most beautiful trees anybody could possibly imagine. "How I should love to go out there!"
"Yes," mused Miss Whitcom, "and we mustn't forget the broad fields of alfalfa—so dark—the very greenest green in all the world."
Barry nodded slowly. "Yes, the river valleys are always quite fertile. Then comes the great Arizona desert, with cacti and mesquite and greenwood and sage. And beyond all that"—he had begun a little monotonously, but came at length to speak in a rather rapt way—"beyond all that, the dim blue of the distance, the lonely peaks of the mountains...."
"Grand old mountains!" added Miss Whitcom.
And it was odd, and no doubt sentimental, but the mountains all at once reminded her somehow of O'Donnell. Yes, O'Donnell was something like a mountain. Her heart quickened a little.
"Oh, I know I should just love it!" cried Hilda. And then she asked, in her almost breathless manner: "Are there any birds in Arizona?"
"Birds?" repeated Barry, a little abstractedly. "Birds? Oh, yes—all through the irrigated districts. There are orchards, you know. It's a fine sight to see them in full bloom. And the trees are alive with birds—meadow larks and mocking birds, mostly. And there are blackbirds, too. They sing in a wonderful chorus. And almost everywhere you'll hear the little Mexican doves."