Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-ho!
For it's weary here
In de wilderness;
Oh, it's weary-y-y, 'way down in Goshen!'

That was the sort of stuff, and it had any number of verses.
I never heard the end of them. Also there were variants--most of
them unfit for publication. The tune had swept up the valley like an
epidemic disease: and, after a while, it astonished no dweller in
Eucalyptus to find his waking thoughts and his whole daily converse
jigging to it. But the new-comer was naturally a bit startled to
hear the same strain put up from a score of houses as he walked down
the street.

"I found the house, No. 67, easily; and knocked. It looked neat
enough, with a fence in front and some pots of flowers in a little
balcony over the porch, and clean muslin curtains to the windows.
The fence and house-front were painted a bright blue, but not
entirely; for here and there appeared patches of green daubed over
the blue, much as if a child had been around experimenting with a
paint-pot.

"'Open the door and come upstairs, please,' said an English voice
right overhead. And, looking up, I saw a slim young man in a
minister's black suit standing among the flower-pots and smiling down
at me. I saw, of course, that this must be my patient; and I knew
his complaint too. Even at that distance anyone could see he was
pretty far gone in consumption.

"As I climbed the stairs he came in from the porch and met me on