VI 



Under the Cedars 187 



to wonder why we ever left our dear old homes, and 

 to become as sentimental under our cedars as the 

 great king Solomon himself — who, however, bought 

 his cedars ready made. And, analysing things, we 

 find that the cause of this unwonted gush — putting 

 aside the whisky, which should never be done — is 

 the presence of innumerable wax-wings, each one 

 with his little bit of sealing-wax still sticking to 

 what, when he was a government clerk, were his 

 fingers, and still preserving his old passion for 

 innocent gossip and twaddle. Then comes slinking 

 by a coyote who cringes and sneers like a London 

 cad, " You wou'dn't fire at sich a pore little beggar 

 as me, wou'd you, noble Capting ? Curse you, I'd 

 like to crunch every bone in your bloated carcass." 

 " Pah ! Let him go. Our New Ruler." Then, just 

 as the last yellow sun-glints strike on the strange, 

 creamy-yellow, clayey-sandy cliffs, with the bones of 

 dead monsters sticking out of them, and studded, 

 here and there, with a few cedars, salvage from 

 innumerable fires, there comes a far-off note in the 

 air, and in a moment ! We are far away from the 

 frozen North. Far away ! In the hot, baked desert, 

 at the back of Edfoo, waiting for Gatta ! Nearer 

 and nearer it comes, and we wake to reality. Down 

 below us is a tiny plain, sprinkled with fresh-fallen 

 snow, through which the burnt stumps of old trees 

 show black and grim. The smoke of the camp fire 

 rises, clear and straight, from the other side of the 

 ridge ; we can hear the half-frozen nigger cook 



