uded: one long, lunar day, with twinkling stars to keep
company.

THE SONG
Far off in the sea is Marlena,
A land of shades and streams,
A land of many delights.
Dark and bold, thy shores,
Marlena; But green, and timorous, thy soft knolls,
Crouching behind the woodlands.
All shady thy hills; all gleaming thy springs,
Like eyes in the earth looking at you.
How charming thy haunts Marlena!--
Oh, the waters that flow through Onimoo:
Oh, the leaves that rustle through Ponoo:
Oh, the roses that blossom in Tarma:
Come, and see the valley of Vina:
How sweet, how sweet, the Isles from Hind:
'Tis aye afternoon of the full, full moon,
And ever the season of fruit,
And ever the hour of flowers,
And never the time of rains and gales,
All in and about Marlena.
Soft sigh the boughs in the stilly air,
Soft lap the beach the billows there;
And in the woods or by the streams,
You needs must nod in the Land of Dreams.

"Yoomy," said old Mohi with a yawn, "you composed that song, then,
did you?"

"I did," said Yoomy, placing his turban a little to one side.

"Then, minstrel, you shall sing me to sleep every night, especially
with that song of Marlena; it is soporific as the airs of Nora-Bamma."

"Mean you, old man, that my lines, setting forth the luxurious repose
to be enjoyed hereafter, are composed with such skill, that the
description begets the reality; or would you ironically suggest, that
the song is a sleepy thing itself?"

"An important discrimination," said Media; "which mean you, Mohi?"

"Now, are you not a silly boy," said Babbalanja, "when from the
ambiguity of his speech, you could so easily have derived
something flattering, thus to seek to extract unpleasantness from it?
Be wise, Yoomy; and hereafter, whenever a remark like that seems
equivocal, be sure to wrest commendation from it, though you torture
it to the quick."

"And most sure am I, that I would ever do so; but often I so incline
to a distrust of my powers, that I am far more keenly alive to
censure, than to praise; and always deem it the more sincere of the
two; and no praise so much elates me, as censure depresses."

CHAPTER CIV
Wherein Babbalanja Broaches A Diabolical Theory, And, In His Own
Person, Proves It

"A truce!" cried Media, "here comes a gallant before the wind.--
Look, Taji!"

Turning, we descried a sharp-prowed canoe, dashing on,