"The West! Why, it's like a mother to me! I love every flower that blooms on the broad bosom of its sweeping plains, every sun-kissed peak of its everlasting hills."
George said he did, too.
"Its beautiful valleys, mystic in their transparent, luminous gloom, weird in the quivering, golden haze of the lightning that flickers over them."
"Ah!" said George.
"The dark spruces tipped with glimmering lights! The aspens bent low in the wind, like waves in a tempest at sea!"
"Can you beat them!" said George.
"The forest of oaks tossing wildly and shining with gleams of fire!"
"What could be sweeter?" said George.
"Say, listen," said Mr. Waddington, "you and I must see more of each other. Come and have a bite of dinner!"
"Now?"