MY OLD VILLAGE. 325 



up, the magnificent engine of the broad gauge that swept 

 along with such ease and power to London. I wish I 

 could feel like that now. The feeling is not quite gone 

 even now, and I have often since seen these great broad- 

 gauge creatures moving alive to and fro like Ezekiel's 

 wheel dream beside the platforms of Babylon with much 

 of the same old delight. Still I never went back with 

 them to the faded footpath. They are all faded now, 

 these footpaths. 



The walnut trees are dead at home. They gave such 

 a thick shade when the fruit was juicy ripe, and the hoods 

 cracked as they fell ; they peeled as easy as taking off a 

 glove ; the sweetest and nuttiest of fruit. It was delicious 

 to sit there with a great volume of Sir Walter Scott, 

 half in sunshine, half in shade, dreaming of * Kenilworth ' 

 and Wayland Smith's cave ; only the difficulty was to 

 balance the luxuries, when to peel the walnuts and when 

 to read the book, and how to adjust oneself to perfection 

 so as to get the exact amount of sunshine and shadow. 

 Too much luxury. There was a story, too, told by one Abu- 

 Kaka ibn Ja'is, of the caravan that set forth in 1483 to 

 cross the desert, and being overwhelmed by a sandstorm, 

 lost their way. They wandered for some time till hun- 

 ger and thirst began to consume them, and then suddenly 

 lit on an oasis unknown to the oldest merchant of 

 Bagdad. There they found refreshing waters and palms 

 and a caravanserai ; and, what was most pleasant, the 

 people at the bazaar and the prince hastened to fill them 

 with hospitality; sheep were killed, and kids were roasted, 

 and all was joy. They were not permitted to depart 

 till they had feasted, when they set out again on their 

 journey, and each at leaving was presented with strings 

 of pearls and bags of rubies, so that at last they came 

 home with all the magnificence of kings. They found. 



