“Wait till you see,” was my triumphant answer.
“I can see pretty well now,” he replied; “there is certainly nothing to obstruct the view. I have a fine prospect of muddy walks and absurdly-shaped beds. You will learn to be practical before you are through. Another year or two will take the city nonsense out of you, and teach you some valuable lessons.”
He was going on with his egotistical homilies, when I stopped him in front of my infant plants.
“Look at that!” I said, exultingly, grasping his arm and facing him toward the bed.
“Look at what?” he repeated, staring stupidly about.
“At those plants. Are they not promising? I intend to separate and transplant them: there will be abundance to stock half my garden. Rather better than raising egg-plants, eh? We city boys know a few things, after all. What do you think of those little beauties?”
“What on earth—or, more properly speaking, in the earth—are you talking about? I don’t see any plants, or beauties either.”
“Not see any plants!” I replied, laughing at his ignorance. “Perhaps you can not tell plants when you do see them: you must study Bridgeman. These, sir, are the beautiful columbine aquilegia formosa, the most lovely ornaments of the refined and elegant parterre.”
I did not know what they were, as the stick was gone; but this was the only name I could recall at the moment.
“May I ask,” he replied, solemnly, “whether you are joking or crazy? If the former, it is too damp here to make it worth while to continue the entertainment; if the latter, the lunatic asylum is close by. What is it you are talking about?”