THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER, 



A DORBAR, 



IS June in Dusty- 

 pore. Fancy a 

 scorching wind 

 that seems to gather 

 the heat together, and 

 rub it into your cheeks and 

 eyes, clouds of dust that nearly 

 hide the landscape I had almost 

 said, through force of habit, but I 

 mean that wide expanse of negativeness 

 into which the sun is striking his almost 

 visible rays till the air distinctly quivers and 

 trembles under them ; no ice, no resource except "thinking 

 on the frosty Caucasus," or sitting behind those rheumatic 



