“‘No.’
“‘Orange, then?’
“‘No, Harry,’ replied his mother. ‘You must know we are not in that latitude. We are too far north for either bread-fruits, orange-trees, or cocoa-nut palms.’
“‘Ah!’ exclaimed Harry, with a sigh, ‘those three are the only trees I care a fig for.’
“‘How, now, if it were a fig-tree, since you speak of figs?’
“‘Oh! very well,’ replied Harry, ‘figs will do; but I would rather it had been one of the others.’
“‘But it is not even a fig-tree.’
“‘Oh! it is not. What then, mamma?’
“‘That of which I speak is a tree of the temperate zone; and, in fact, grows to greatest perfection in the coldest parts of it. Have you noticed some tall straight trees, with thick foliage of a bright red colour?’
“‘Yes, mamma,’ answered Frank; ‘I have. I know a part of the valley where there are many of them—some of them nearly crimson, while others are orange-coloured.’