“When he thought of England—and there was nothing to take his mind off it in all those long hours standing uselessly around, witnessing everything, understanding nothing—when he thought of England it was its greenness he remembered. Not that the land of the Morea was not green, but it was the wrong kind of green. The olive trees that carpeted the valley floor were a silver-gray aspen color, with a lovely shimmer like silken garments when the wind caressed them; but pale and cold. And the tall cy...presses, elegant and lovely tapered towers, were green, but heavy green, with a bitter touch of blackness in them, and they, too, of a cold dark hue. The leaves of the orange trees were green, with that dusty dark greenness that overtakes English leaves in summer, but the boy was yearning for the bright yellow-green, fresh juicy green of an English meadow, the amazing tender emerald green of the young leaf sprouting and unwinding in the cool northern spring. Flowers came; the Greek spring dawns early, and soon the land was extravagantly coverleted in flowers.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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