“To see what, Augusta?” demanded he.

“The Normandy poplars, love.  Aren’t you awfully disappointed in them?  I am.  So wooden!”

[Illustration:  Momma was enjoying herself.]

Poppa said he didn’t know that he had been relying much on the poplar feature of the scenery, and returned to his weary search for American telegrams in a London daily paper.

“Dear me,” momma ejaculated, “I never supposed I should see them doing it!  And right along the line of the railway, too!”

“See them doing it!” I repeated, searching the landscape.

“The women working in the fields, darling love.  Garnering the grain, all in that nice moderate shade of blue-electric, shouldn’t you call it?  There—­there’s another!  No, you can’t see her now.  France is fascinating!”

Poppa abruptly folded the newspaper.  “I’ve learnt a great deal more than I wanted to know about Madagascar,” said he, “and I understand that there’s a likelihood of the London voter being called to arms to prevent High Church trustees introducing candles and incense into the opening exercises of the public schools.  I’ve read eleven different accounts of a battle in Korea, and an article on the fauna and flora of Beluchistan, very well written.  And I see it’s stated, on good authority, that the Queen drove out yesterday accompanied by the Princess Beatrice.  I don’t know that I ever got more information for two cents in my life.  But for news—­Great Scott!  I know more news than there is in that paper!  The editor ought to be invited to come over and discover America.”

“Here’s something about America,” I protested, “from Chicago, too.  A whole column—­’Movements of Cereals.’”

“Yes, and look at that for a nice attractive headline,” responded the Senator with sarcasm. “‘Movements of Cereals!’ Gives you a great idea of pace, doesn’t it?  Why couldn’t they have called it ’Grain on the Go’?”

“Did Mr. McConnell get in for Mayor, or Jimmy Fagan?” I inquired, looking down the column.

“They don’t seem to have asked anybody.”

“And who got the Post Office?”

“Not there, not there, my child!”

“Oh!” said momma at the window, “these little gray-stone villages are too sweet for words.  Why talk of Chicago?  Mr. McConnell and Mr. Fagan are all very well at home, but now that the ocean heaves between us, and your political campaign is over, may we not forget them?”

“Forget Mike McConnell and Jimmy Fagan!” replied the Senator, regarding a passing church spire with an absent smile.  “Well, no, Augusta; as far as I’m concerned I’m afraid it couldn’t be done—­at all permanently.  There’s too much involved.  But I see what you mean about turning the mind out to pasture when the grazing is interesting—­getting in a cud, so to speak, for reflection afterwards.  I see your idea.”

The Senator is always business-like.  He immediately addressed himself through the other window to the appreciation of the scenery, and I felt, as I took out my note-book to record one or two impressions, that he would do it justice.