Then they sang, to a
sweet and plaintive air, these words: "The winds roared, and the rains
fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree.
Let us pity the white man; no mother hath he to bring him milk, no wife
to grind his corn." Flowers in the desert![1]
[Footnote 1: Leigh Hunt.]
Flowers in the desert! And De Sauty shall spare them, though he
botanize on his mother's grave. Borro-boolah-gah may know us by our
India-rubber shirts and pictorial pocket-handkerchiefs; and King Mumbo
Jumbo may reduce his rebellious locks to subjection with a Yankee
currycomb; but these, our desert flowers, are All Right, De Sauty!
BEAUTY AT BILLIARDS.
There is a lady in this case.
For three days she had sat opposite me at the table of the pleasantest
of White Mountain resorts, (of course I give no hint as to which _that_
is,--tastes differ,) and I had gradually become enthralled. Her beauty
was dazzling, and her name was Tarlingford. For the first of these
items, I was indebted to my own intelligence; for the second to the
hotel register, which also informed me that she was from New York.
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