“Ay, lad! it is very refreshing; and it is Sunday, and we have got away from the wicked for an hour or two. But in England there would be a little white church out yonder, and a spire like an angel’s forefinger pointing from the grass to heaven, and the lads in their clean frocks like snow, and the lasses in their white stockings and new shawls, and the old women in their scarlet cloaks and black bonnets, all going one road, and a tinkle-tinkle from the belfry, that would turn all these other sounds and colors and sweet smells holy, as well as fair, on the Sabbath morn. Ah, England! Ah!” “You will see her again,--no need to sigh. But this is a lovely land.” “So ’tis, Tom, so ’tis. But I’ll tell you what puts me out a little bit;--nothing is what it sets up for here. If you see a ripe pear and go to eat it, it is a lump of hard wood. Next comes a thing the very sight of which turns your stomach, and that is delicious,--a loquat, for instance. There, now, look at that magpie! well, it is Australia, so that magpie is a crow and not a magpie at all. Everything pretends to be some old friend or other of mine, and turns out a stranger. Here is nothing but surprises and deceptions. The flowers make a point of not smelling, and the bushes, that nobody expects to smell or wants to smell, they smell lovely.” “What does it matter where the smell comes from, so that you get it?” “Why, Tom,” replied George, opening his eyes, “it makes all the difference. I like to smell a flower,--a flower is not complete without smell; but I don’t care if I never smell a bush till I die. Then the birds,--they laugh and talk like Christians; they make me split my sides, bless their little hearts! but they won’t chirrup. It is Australia! where everything is inside-out and topsy-turvy. The animals have four legs, so they jump on two. Ten-foot square of rock lets for a pound a month; ten acres of grass for a shilling a year. Roasted at Christmas, shiver o’ cold on Midsummer Day. The lakes are grass, and the rivers turn their backs on the sea and run into the heart of the land; and the men would stand on their heads, but I have taken a thought, and I’ve found out why they don’t.” “Why?” “Because, if they did, their heads would point the same way a man’s head points in England.” Tom Robinson laughed, and told George he admired the country for these very traits. “Novelty for me against the world. Who’d come twelve thousand miles to see nothing we couldn’t see at home? One does not want the same story always. Where are we going, George?” “Oh, not much farther,--only about twelve miles from the camp.” “Where to?” “To a farmer I know. I am going to show you a lark, Tom,” said George, and his eyes beamed benevolence on his comrade. Robinson stopped short. “George,” said he, “no! don’t let us. I would rather stay at home and read my book.” “Why, Tom, am I the man to tempt you to do evil?” asked George, hurt. “Why, no! but, for all that, you proposed a lark.”