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48 Chit-Chat by Puck.
under the lashes of the planter’s whip. Some-
times I thought I heard the plaintive songs of the
wretched slaves when in the evening, after a day
of toil, they wended their way homeward from the
fields; and sometimes I heard sobs and piteous
moaning, as if husbands and wives were being pasted,
or children torn from their parents to be sold to the
highest bidder of the slave auction-mart. And all
that I saw and heard I treasured in my memory.
“There were other voyages, when I came to the
islands of the Pacific Ocean, where the savages, at
the sight of me, rushed down to the shore and
shot impoisoned arrows from their bows at the
sailors. I visited the gorgeous East Indies, and all
the things that I brought home from that won-
drous land—the early home of all weird stories
in the world—had strange and grotesque tales
to relate. I listened to the legends of the temples
—thousands of years old—where the heathen images
are made of pure gold and decked with price-
less glistening gems; where the bajaderes, or
dancing girls, vie in graceful motion with the
soft and ethereal clouds themselves; where the
wheels of the mighty Juggernaut’s car crush to
death the wild fanatics that pave its wave; where
the disconsolate widow allows herself to be burned
alive on the funeral pile of her dead husband ; where
the holy Ganges pours forth its broad waters to
the sea, and on the surface of which great feasts are
held ; where thousands of boats move with coloured
lanterns, and the Hindoos, during jubilant strains
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