Which each new tide to her in tribute brings!
Although from olive, orange, fig, and vine,
Her own fond children all their wealth consign,
'Tis Flora's gifts my royal mother sings,
As, joined to palm and pine, her hammock swings.
In Macao.
A Story from the "Grasshopper's Library."
I was seated one pleasant day in the garden, which was given to the city of Macao by the Marcos family, near the grotto sacred to the poet Camoens, when a Portuguese priest came from among the wilderness of flowers and sat beside me. He spoke English with a pleasant accent and we read Bowring's effusion together, as it is engraved on the marble slab nearby. Scarcely had we finished, and the father was telling me of Goa in India, when my uncle Robert came from beneath the great banyan tree and stood before us. The father jumped to his feet, and throwing back his brown robe, rushed forward toward my uncle with a stilletto held ready for an upward stroke. Quickly my uncle drew a revolver and fired—and the father fell dead at my feet.