seven o'clock
and what a shame to run down such a country as this . There they come home , and tell you the flowers have no smell , but they keep dark about the trees and bushes being haystacks of flowers . Snuff the air as we go , it is a thousand English gardens in one . Look at all those tea-scrubs each with a thousand blossoms on it as sweet as honey , and the golden wattles on the other side , and all smelling like seven o'clock ; after which flowers be hanged ! '' `` Ay , lad ! it is very refreshing ; and it is Sunday , and we have got away from the wicked for an hour or two ; but in England there would be a little white church out yonder , and a spire like an angel 's forefinger pointing from the grass to heaven , and the lads in their clean smock-frocks like snow , and the wenches in their white stockings and new shawls , and the old women in their scarlet cloaks and black bonnets , all going one road , and a tinkle-tinkle from the belfry , that would turn all these other sounds and colors and sweet smells holy , as well as fair , on the Sabbath morn . Ah !