It’s a long way from your merry old England out here, and it’s a funny sort of place, where nothing happens like it should. Christmas comes in the middle of summer. The north wind’s hot and the south wind’s cold. Trees drop their bark and keep their leaves. The flowers don’t smell and the birds don’t sing. The swans are black and the eagles white. You burn cedar to boil your hominy and build your fences out of mahogany. Aye, it’s not the same as the old country at all.