Mr. P. now took occasion to hurry after the waiter to his room, but he heard the muttered thunder of a German-storm below him as he rapidly climbed the stairs. He had a very nice room in the extreme upper part of the house, and the view was charming.
To the East one could see the Hudson-"winding like a silver thread;" the distant Bay of Fundy; and the foggy shores of Newfoundland.
To the South were distinctly visible the blue Juniata; the bold arch of the Natural Bridge; and the long lines of shipping at New Orleans; while in the West, the setting sun could be seen glowing upon the walls of the Yo Semite, and gilding the tops of the big trees in the Mariposa valley.
After feasting his eyes on this magnificent prospect, Mr. P. came down-stairs to feast on something which owed its enchantment to a cooking-range, and not to a range of distance. He met the Professor at the bottom of the stairs, and hastened to pacify him by inquiries about some little bushes that he had just gathered.
"That is laurel," said the learned man, grumly.
"Indeed!" said Mr. P. "We make lard of that in New York."
"Lard?" cried the Professor. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Oh, yes, certainly!" said Mr. P.
"Have you never heard of the great LORILLARD manufacturing establishment?"