In August it was a place of shady sweetness , fragrant with the odour of ripening apples , full of dear , delicate shadows . Through its openings we looked afar to the blue rims of the hills and over green , old , tranquil fields , lying the sunset glow . Overhead the lacing leaves made a green , murmurous roof . There was no such thing as hurry in the world , while we lingered there and talked of `` cabbages and kings . '' A tale of the Story Girl 's , wherein princes were thicker than blackberries , and queens as common as buttercups , led to our discussion of kings . We wondered what it would be like to be a king . Peter thought it would be fine , only kind of inconvenient , wearing a crown all the time . `` Oh , but they do n't , '' said the Story Girl . `` Maybe they used to once , but now they wear hats . The crowns are just for special occasions . They look very much like other people , if you can go by their photographs . '' `` I do n't believe it would be much fun as a steady thing , '' said Cecily . `` I 'd like to SEE a queen though . That is one thing I have against the Island -- you never have a chance to see things like that here . '' `` The Prince of Wales was in Charlottetown once , '' said Peter . `` My Aunt Jane saw him quite close by . '' `` That was before we were born , and such a thing wo n't happen again until after we 're dead , '' said Cecily , with very unusual pessimism . `` I think queens and kings were thicker long ago , '' said the Story Girl . `` They do seem dreadfully scarce now . There is n't one in this country anywhere .
Perhaps I 'll get a glimpse of some when I go XXXXX Europe . ''
Through against as before by for in though to with