"What's this other river?" demanded Tom.
"This is the junction of the Euphrates and Tigris, fifty miles above Bassorah."
"Why, isn't this the Garden of Eden? I think my father told me that the Garden of Eden was at Kumah."
"Well, he was right." Here Mr. Jollytarre hailed an Arab who had just come on board to peddle his wares, consisting of curiosities and relics.
The Arab stood in front of Tom, gravely offering him a small branch of a tree. His English was so bad, however, that Tom was forced to turn to Mr. Jollytarre for an interpretation.
"He says that is a branch from the original tree which bore the forbidden fruit."
"Good gracious, you don't say so!" And Tom forthwith purchased the branch, paying two or three prices for it, of course.
Then the peddler jumped ashore, and they left Kumah behind them.
Afterward, for hours and hours a monotonous stretch of lowlands was the only landscape. The river-banks were so low that the wash from the steamer went over and watered the grass. Here and there were rice fields cultivated by the Arabs, and where the land was drier green corn waved, but not a tree broke the dead level of the landscape.
"What are those?" cried Tom, pointing to some animals playing among the reeds. "Oh yes, I see now—pigs; wild pigs, I suppose? And those birds are pelicans, are they not—there, in those pools? How snowy white they are!"