rs "breathing as one that has a weary dream."

I looked and beheld that I could not give in words the genius of the
place. "I can't play the flute, but I have a cousin who plays the
violin." I knew a man who could. Some people said he was not a nice man,
and I might run the risk of contaminating morals, but nothing mattered
in such a climate. See now, go to the very worst of Zola's novels and
read there his description of a conservatory. That was it. Several
months passed away, but there was neither chill nor burning heat to mark
the passage of time. Only, with a sense of acute pain I felt that I must
"do" the Waterfall, and I climbed up the steps in the hillside, though
every boulder cried "sit down," until I found a small stream of water
coursing down the face of a rock, and a much bigger one down my own.

Then we went away to breakfast, the stomach being always more worthy
than any amount of sentiment. A turn in the road hid the gardens and
stopped the noise of the waters, and that experience was over for all
time. Experiences are very like cheroots. They generally begin badly,
taste perfect half way through, and at the butt-end are things to be
thrown away and never picked up again....

His name was John, and he had a pigtail five feet long--all real hair
and no silk braided, and he kept an hotel by the way and fed us with a
chicken, into whose innocent flesh onions and strange vegetables had
been forced. Till then we had feared Chinamen, especially when they
brought food, but now we will eat anything at their hands. The
conclusion of the meal was a half-guinea pineapple and a siesta. This is
a beautiful thing which we of India--but I am of India no more--do not
understand. You lie down and wait for time to pass. You are not in the
least wearied--and you would not go to sleep. You are filled with a
divine drowsiness--quite different from the heavy sodden slumber of a
hot-weather Sunday, or the businesslike repose of a Europe morning. Now
I begin to despise novelists who write about _siestas_ in cold climates.
I know what the real thing means.

* * * * *

I have been trying to buy a few things--a _sarong_, which is a _putso_
which is a _dhoti_; a pipe; and a "damned Malayan kris." The _sarongs_
come chiefly from Germany, the pipes from the pawn-shops, and there are
no krises except little toothpick things that could not penetrate the
hide of a Malay. In the native town, I found a la