“I was afraid so, Ned. I never expected to see them recover as they have.”
“Then I won’t say it’s a horribly disappointing place,” cried Ned, proudly. “I say it’s beautiful and grand.”
“So it is, my boy,” said the doctor; “but why have you begun talking like this?”
“Oh, that’s nothing to do with what I was going to say, sir,” said the boy excitedly.
“What were you going to say, then?” asked the doctor, smiling.
“That I can’t understand it, sir.”
“Well, you said so before,” cried Chris grumpily.
“Of course I did; you needn’t catch me up, Chris.—I mean this, sir; I can’t understand why it is that the trees and flowers and other things grow so beautifully here, while the peaches and oranges, bananas and corns are always killed by frost or want of water, when they are not covered with insects and grubs which make them wither away.”
“That’s simple enough, my dear boy,” said the doctor gravely. “All those things which flourish so well are natives of this part of the world, and grow wild. Those which we have planted are foreign to the soil, and grow after the fashion to which they have been trained by cultivation. Nature is a better gardener than man, but fruits of the soil that she produces and which flourish so bravely are not suited to our requirements.”
“Oh, I see,” said Ned thoughtfully. “But what about the millions of insects? Why don’t Nature’s plants get blighted the same as ours do?”