ALY 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 wasastory,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, 
