"What a perfect road! What a heavenly country! See the flowers,
will you?"
This was Jeff, always an enthusiast; but we could agree with
him fully.
The road was some sort of hard manufactured stuff, sloped
slightly to shed rain, with every curve and grade and gutter as
perfect as if it were Europe's best. "No men, eh?" sneered Terry.
On either side a double row of trees shaded the footpaths; between
the trees bushes or vines, all fruit-bearing, now and then seats
and little wayside fountains; everywhere flowers.
"We'd better import some of these ladies and set 'em to
parking the United States," I suggested. "Mighty nice place
they've got here." We rested a few moments by one of the fountains,
tested the fruit that looked ripe, and went on, impressed, for all
our gay bravado by the sense of quiet potency which lay about us.
Here was evidently a people highly skilled, efficient, caring
for their country as a florist cares for his costliest orchids.
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