He said something of this kind to Hawkshaw, who was alternately silent or nervously garrulous, adding, with a sad smile—
"I never hear the chimes of old Acton, ringing over the woodlands, without thinking of the lines—
"'Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, of home, and native clime,
When last I heard their soothing chime.'
And then the scenery here about is so glorious, and so thoroughly English in its character and fertility!"
"Bah! you don't call this scenery, do you?" asked Hawkshaw, brusquely.
"Is it not charming?"
"May be so to you; but to me, who have hunted, scouted, and trapped over the mighty Sierras, which divide Texas from New Mexico—Sierras covered to their cloud-clapped summits with forests of oak, pine, and cedar, and all alive with wild horses and cattle; or to me, who have seen the yet denser woods out of which the Arkansas and Trinidad rivers come roaring to the sea, your mild, Dutch-looking, English landscape, is no more than a rat-ranche would be if compared to St. Paul's Cathedral?"
"It must be somewhat dangerous, a land teeming with wild horses and cattle?" said Morley, to change the subject, and smiling, as he lit a fresh cigar.
"Dangerous? Caramba! I rather calculate it is!"
"How?" asked Morley, carelessly.