As, joined to palm and pine, her hammock swings.




In Macao.

_A Story from the "Grasshopper's Library."_


I was seated one pleasant day in the garden, which was given to the city
of Macao by the Marcos family, near the grotto sacred to the poet
Camoens, when a Portuguese priest came from among the wilderness of
flowers and sat beside me. He spoke English with a pleasant accent and
we read Bowring's effusion together, as it is engraved on the marble
slab nearby. Scarcely had we finished, and the father was telling me of
Goa in India, when my uncle Robert came from beneath the great banyan
tree and stood before us. The father jumped to his feet, and throwing
back his brown robe, rushed forward toward my uncle with a stilletto
held ready for an upward stroke. Quickly my uncle drew a revolver and
fired--and the father fell dead at my feet.


I

To those who have been in Southern Europe and have seen the towns along
the Riviera, the first view of Macao, as the steamboat approaches from
Hong Kong, gives the impression of having been suddenly transported to
the sunny Mediterranean. Were it not for the colour of the water, and
the Chinese junks, Macao would indeed be a perfect representation of any