“Well, look at the trees,” said Rifle.
“The trees? Ha! ha! ha!” cried Sam, with something he meant for a scornful laugh. “I have been looking at ’em. I don’t call them trees.”
“What do you call them, then?” said Norman.
“I d’know. I suppose they thinks they’re trees, if so be as they can think, but look at ’em. Who ever saw a tree grow with its leaves like that. Leaves ought to be flat, and hanging down. Them’s all set edgewise like butcher’s broom, and pretty stuff that is.”
“But they don’t all grow that way.”
“Oh yes, they do, sir. Trees can’t grow proper in such syle as this here. Look here, Master ’Temus, you always did care for your garden so long as I did all the weeding for you. You can speak fair. Now tell me this, What colour ought green trees to be?”
“Why, green, of course.”
“Werry well, then; just look at them leaves. Ye can’t call them green; they’re pink and laylock, and dirty, soap-suddy green.”
“Well, there then, look how beautifully the grass grows.”
“Grass? Ye–e–es; it’s growing pretty thick. Got used to it, I suppose.”