There were
the same smells, the same sorts of pigs and ducks and hens, the
same breeds of lively nightly companions, and each seemed to have
gained a fresh force.
It was a relief to be out in the fields again after the foul
odors of the night, and the travelers were off before dawn. The
country looked more familiar to Mackay this morning, for they
passed through wheat and barley fields. It seemed so strange to
wander over a man's farm by a footpath, but it was a Chinese
custom to which he soon became accustomed.
The sun was blazing hot, and it was a great relief when they
entered the cool shade of a forest. It was a delightful place and
George Mackay reveled in its beauty. Ever since he had been able
to run about his own home farm in Ontario his eyes had always
been wide open to observe anything new. He had studied as much
out of doors, all his life, as he had done in college, and now he
found this forest a perfect library of new things. Nearly every
tree and flower was strange to his Canadian eyes. Here and there,
in sheltered valleys, grew the tree-fern, the most beautiful
object in the forest, towering away up sometimes to a height of
sixty feet, and spreading its stately fronds out to a width of
fifteen feet.
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