Haroun al Raschid
shook the raindrops restlessly from his gray mane, as though he hated to
be damp, and was thinking longingly of the hot sand and the desert sun.
But he had no right to complain, for water must needs come in the
oases,--and truly I know of no fairer and sweeter resting-place in
life's journey than the Valley of the Sweet Waters above the Golden
Horn.

That same south wind--when I think, it is a point or two easterly, and
it seems to smell of Persia--well, that same soft wind is blowing at my
windows now in the dark night, and is murmuring, sometimes almost
complaining, then dying away in a fitful, tearful sigh, sorry even to
weeping for its restless fate, sorry perhaps for me and sighing for me.
God knows, there is enough to sigh for in this working-day world, is
there not? I have heard you sigh, too, very sadly, as though something
hurt you, although you are so bright and young and fair. The wind sighs
hopelessly, in great sobs of weariness and despair, for he is filled
with the ghosts of the past; but your breath has a music in it that is
more like the song of the sunrise that used to break out from the heart
of the beautiful marble at dawn.

Poor wind! He is trying to speak to me through the pines,--perhaps he is
bringing a message. It is long since any one brought me a message I
cared to hear. I will open the door to the terrace and let him in, and
see what he has to say.

Truly, he speaks great words:--

"I am the belt and the girdle of this world. I carry in my arms the
souls of the dead and the sins of them; the souls of them that have not
yet lived, with their deeds, are in my bosom. I am sorrowful with the
sorrow of ages, and strong with the strength of ages yet unlived. What
is thy sorrow to my sorrow, or thy strength to my strength? Listen.

"Knowest thou whence I come, or whither I go? Fool, thou knowest not
even of thyself what thou shalt do to-morrow, and it may be that on the
next day I shall have thy soul, to take it away, and hold it, and buffet
it, and tear it as I will. Fool, thou knowest little! The gardens of
Persia are sweet this night; this night the maidens of Hindustan have
gone forth to greet the new moon, and I am full of their soft prayers
and gentle thoughts, for I am come from them. But the north, whither I
go, is cold and cruel, full of snow and darkness and gloom. Along the
lands where I will pass I shall see men and women dying in the frost,
and little children, t