“Yes, sir, spring is nearly here; and oh, I do love the sweet spring-time, when the sun shines warm and soft every day, sir; when the grass grows green in the fields; when the leaves and buds are on the trees; when birds are building and singing so sweetly on the trees and hedges, and the larks—oh look, sir, yonder is one up there! Can you see it, sir? Can you see it?”
“My eyes are not so young as yours, dearie.”
“And then in spring, sir, the sea gets bluer, and I do think that the breakers that tumble inshore or break against the rocks are then as white as snow.”
“I think you are a poet, boy.”
“Oh, no, no, but I just love things, you know, and so does Davie Drake.”
“Now, Barclay, look up at that old windmill again. Do you think we’re going to live in it just as it is?”
“Oh, I don’t know, you know. I wouldn’t mind; and I’m sure Muff wouldn’t, if there are plenty of rats and mice.”
Antonio laughed.
“I’m going to make such a transformation in yonder old windmill, that will cause its late owner to sit up and say he is sorry he sold it.”