"Why, what's that?" asked Cope tactlessly.
Medora Phillips withheld her eyes and sent out a guiding finger in the
opposite direction. "Only see the red of those maples!" she said; "and that
other red just to the left--the tree with the small, fine leaves all
aflame. Do you know what it is?"
"I'm afraid not."
"It's a tupelo. And this shrub, right here?" She took between her fingers
one large, bland indented leaf on a small tree close to the path.
Cope shook his head.
"Why, it's a sassafras. And this?"--she thrust her toe into a thick,
lustrous bed of tiny leaves that hugged the ground. "No, again? That's
kinnikinnick. Oh, my poor boy, you have everything to learn. Brought up in
the country, too!"
"But, really," said Cope in defense, "Freeford isn't so small as
_that_. And even in the country one may turn by preference to books.
Try me on primroses and date-palms and pomegranates!"
Medora broke off a branch of sassafras and swished it to and fro as she
walked. "See," she said; "three kinds of leaves on the same tree: one
without lobes, one with a single lobe, and one with two."
"Isn't Nature wonderful," replied Cope easily.
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