they had closed. Every one was sure that the child had been put below the basket, and that she did not get out of it in the natural way; but she did get out, and how? I cannot say, though there can be no doubt that it was accomplished by some skilful manœuvre.
Such are a few, a very few of the surprising feats which these jugglers perform, and many still more wonderful there are, which I may have a chance of communicating at some future period to the reader; they are the result of surprising art, address, or contrivance; and for such the natives of India excel the whole world.
L'Envoi.—Reader, if you have been amused with this little anecdote, thank my deceased friend, not me. I am but the mouth-piece of one speaking from the tomb. We may meet again—si fata veliat. If so, au revoir. If, however, the fates are unpropitious, why then, adieu!
UNDER THE FIR-TREES.
A HARVEST ROMANCE.
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“Ha, Marian! well met, fair maid! Where roaming this bright morn?”
The maiden, with a sigh, replies, “My Lord, to lease the corn.”
Her hair with blossoms wild bedeck’d, her cheek with blushes dyed,
She stands a very queen of flowers, yet downcast as a bride.
“Come Marian, my love, with me; nay, why so bashful now?
This scorching sun will deeply tinge the whiteness of thy brow;
The coarse, harsh stubble of the fields these little hands will spoil;
My village beauty was not born to suffer heat and toil.
