“What’s that?” screamed the interested Priscilla.
“Sometimes folks call it Indian soap-weed,” explained the brakeman in her ear, “because if you break the leaves they’ll lather in water. And some folks call it Spanish bayonet. It grows in barren places out here.”
“I’ll put that in my Thought Book,” Priscilla told him. “I guess it’s lucky I have a new one with all these new things to write about. Why are all the trees out here those tall cottonwoods?”
“They ain’t all,” answered the obliging brakeman, “but the cottonwoods don’t take so much soil. They grow easy and quick, and make good wind-breaks, so folks plant ’em when they build a house near a creek like that one over there. Quaking-asps—they grow well, too.”
“Quaking-asps!” cried Priscilla. “Where are they? Please show me! I’d give worlds to see one! My roommate lives out here—I’m just on my way to visit her—and it’s her favorite tree.”
“You don’t have to give nothin’,” shouted her companion dryly. “There’s plenty of ’em right along this creek we’re passing. They’re them little trees 17 with light green trunks and trembly leaves. They grow by creeks and in springy places mostly.”
Priscilla leaned over the railing and gazed.
“Oh, aren’t they happy? They’re the jolliest trees I ever saw!”
“I guess that is a good word for ’em,” agreed the brakeman. “They sure do dance around.”
“Doesn’t anything grow on those hills but little trees and sagebrush?” queried Priscilla. “It is sagebrush, isn’t it? I guessed it was from pictures, and from what Virginia said.”