lance-wood,
mahogany, and ebony, parasitical plants in green and red, with endless
varieties of gay flowers strung and laced in superb festoons on trunk
and branch; singing birds and paroquets making the forest alive; while,
mingled with the delicious fragrance of orange-blossoms, cinnamon, and
pimento, the fresh breeze wheeled through clump and leaf, changing the
hues of plant and flower from white to crimson, green, purple, and gold,
as Nature painted them in gorgeous dyes.

Through this brilliant vegetation, along the uneven road, came the sound
of horses' feet, with hearty shouts and laughter; and presently appeared
a cavalcade, mounted on mules and horses, all making the forest ring
with merriment.

Ahead came Tom Stewart, on a small, sure-footed pony; and beside him Mr.
Tiny Mouse, reefer, on a high mule, with a scrubbing-brush mane, looking
like a fly pennant at the mast-head of the frigate, kicking his little
heels into the old mule, as if that mule minded it even so much as to
shake his long ears! Then straggling in the centre were Darcantel,
Stingo, and Paddy Burns; and behind them came a tall, muscular man, on a
mettled barb, which he controlled by a touch of his little finger. And
at his side, on the most diminutive of the donkey breed, with feet
touching the ground, clung stout Jacob Blunt, the sailor, in a more
dreadful trepidation than he had ever known on board his old teak-built
brig, lying there in the Roads of Kingston; while the rear was brought
up by Piron and Commodore Cleveland.

"Now, you little madcap, look sharp when we turn the curve of the
mountain, and you'll catch a peep at Escondido; and don't you pinch that
old mule again on her back, or she'll pitch you up into that silk
cotton-tree."

"If it pleases Providence to restore me safely to my dear old 'Martha
Blunt,' I'll take my davy never to sit astride of any d---- brute on
four legs again!" This mild vow came from the lips of Jacob Blunt, and
he honestly meant every word he said.

"Give us another jolly song, Stingo; it will keep your throat clear for
the claret."

"For the sake of my old timbers, sir, and as you vally my wife's
blessing, don't sing! There, you infarnal beast, you've yawed sharp up
into this ere bush, and put my starboard glim out forever! I say, Don
Spanisher, don't sing--_I'm_ going fast enough!" shouted the poor
skipper, as he passed his paws around the little brute's neck, with his
hat over his eyes.

"Colo