“Centaurea.”
“You can see that everywhere; and these bluebell-harebell-campanula things, and the dandelion blossoms, and the whortleberry and hogweed and wild parsley stuff: you see them all at home.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh yes: the fir trees down below, and the ash and birch and oak and willow, and all the rest of it. I thought all the trees and flowers would be foreign; and there’s nothing strange about them anywhere, only that they grow close to the ice.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Dale, as he pressed an orange hawkweed between two pieces of paper; “has it never occurred to your wise young head that these things are common at home because they have been brought from places like this?”
“Eh?”
“Have you not heard about Alpine plants?”
“Oh yes. Aunt Ellen has lots in her garden, I know, because they are so like my name—Saxe something.”
“Saxifrages. There are any number of them about here, from some so tiny you can hardly see them to others with great bell flowers and broad leaves. I’m afraid if you went to the tropics Saxe, you would find fault with the plants there, because you had seen so many of them at home in England. Now, let’s sit down and rest here, and look at the mountains! I never tire of watching their snow peaks, ridges and hollows, with their dazzling snow.”
“Yes, it’s very beautiful; but I want to climb up some more of them.”