“Oh, I remember,” cried Warlock. “You and your master were about to start on a long journey up the great river to a town called—what was it called though?”
“Bagdad!” cried Shireen. “I have it all now. Yes, and the kind good-natured priest was going with us.”
Well, my children, Bagdad, you know, is far away to the north, and high up the winding Tigris. Oh, that river does wind to be sure, in and out, out and in, and sometimes it really flows north when it might be saving time by keeping on towards the sunny south, or the golden east. But I dare say, after all, the river knows best, and is in no great hurry to leave this lovely land.
Not all lovely is it, though, for even at the places where the river winds the most, the banks are low and wide, stretching afar on each side, and bounded by rising hills, with here and there a tuft of palm trees.
But at other places the river goes hurrying on rapidly, as in terror and dread of the very wildness of the scenery, tall beetling cliffs, impassable jungles and bare-scalped rocks, rising brown above the greenery of storm-rent woods and forests. This is the home of many a strange and beautiful bird, the resort of many a savage beast.
“Grand opening for sport, Shireen,” said Cracker.
“Ah, Cracker, you are strong and big and brave, and your teeth are like daggers of ivory, but short indeed would your existence be if you attempted sport in this lovely wilderness. There are beasts herein, Cracker, one touch from the paws of which would end all your joys and troubles as well.”
“I’m not going there then, Shireen. Yorkshire or Scotland is good enough for me, and I’d as soon tackle a Bingley badger as a Bagdad tiger, you bet.”
On and on went our little vessel, Chammy, up the waters of the broad, deep river.
“How happy I should be to-day,” I heard my master remark to the priest, “if it were not for this ever-abiding anxiety.”