joiced to find her native turkey appearing on the
table, with pigeons and chickens (though the chickens, to be sure, were
scarcely larger than the pigeons), and lamb that was really not more
tough than that of New Hampshire and the White Mountains.

If they dined with the Arabs, there was indeed a kind of dark
molasses-gingerbread-looking cake, with curds in it, that she found it
hard to eat. "But _they_ like it," she said complacently.

The remaining little boy, too, smiled over his pile of ripe bananas, as
he thought of the quarter-of-a-dollar-a-half-dozen green ones at that
moment waiting at the corners of the streets at home. Indeed, it was a
land for boys. There were the dates, both fresh and dried,--far more
juicy than those learned at school; and there was the gingerbread-nut
tree, the dom palm, that bore a nut tasting "like baker's gingerbread
that has been kept a few days in the shop," as the remaining little boy
remarked. And he wished for his brothers when the live dinner came on
board their boat, at the stopping-places, in the form of good-sized
sheep struggling on the shoulders of stout Arabs, or an armful of live
hens and pigeons.

All the family (or as much of it as was present) agreed with Mrs.
Peterkin's views. Amanda at home had seemed quite a blessing, but at
this distance her services, compared with the attentions of their
Maltese dragoman and the devotion of their Arab servants, seemed of
doubtful value, and even Mrs. Peterkin dreaded returning to her tender
mercies.

"Just imagine inviting the Russian Count to dinner at home--and Amanda!"
exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza.

"And he came to dinner at least three times a week on board the boat,"
said the remaining little boy.

"The Arabs are so convenient about carrying one's umbrellas and shawls,"
said Elizabeth Eliza. "How I should miss Hassan in picking up my blue
veil!"

The family recalled many anecdotes of the shortcomings of Amanda, as
Mrs. Peterkin leaned back upon her divan and wafted a fly-whisk. Mr.
Peterkin had expended large sums in telegrams from every point where he
found the telegraph in operation; but there was no reply from Solomon
John, and none from the two little boys.

By a succession of telegrams they had learned that no one had fallen
into the crater of Vesuvius in the course of the last six months, not
even a little boy. This was consoling.

By letters from the lady from Philadelphia, they learned that she had
received So