"Wait," said Peter. "I only said, 'I want to know what other trees you have;' that's what I meant, but you shet me right up."
"O, there's the butternut, and tree of heaven, and papaw, and 'simmon, and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."
"What's a 'simmon?"
"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n choke-cherries."
"What's a papaw?"
"A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat it. It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to work."
"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"
"O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know? It's a tree of heaven, I suppose. It has pink hollyhocks growing on it. What makes you ask so many questions?"
Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones. Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was strange how many it took to fill such "enormous big baskets."
"Now," said Horace, "I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen. You said you knew it by sight."