overcome by a profound slumber. But his slumber, though deep, was not
peaceful, and he was the actor in an agitating drama.

He found himself alone in a gay and glorious garden. In the centre of
it grew a pomegranate tree of prodigious size; its top was lost in the
sky, and its innumerable branches sprang out in all directions, covered
with large fruit of a rich golden hue. Beautiful birds were perched
upon all parts of the tree, and chanted with perpetual melody the
beauties of their bower. Tempted by the delicious sight, Popanilla
stretched forward his ready hand to pluck; but no sooner had he grasped
the fruit than the music immediately ceased, the birds rushed away, the
sky darkened, the tree fell under the wind, the garden vanished, and
Popanilla found himself in the midst of a raging sea, buffeting the
waves.

He would certainly have been drowned had he not been immediately
swallowed up by the huge monster which had not only been the occasion of
the storm of yesterday, but, ah! most unhappy business! been the
occasion also of his losing that lock of hair.

Ere he could congratulate himself on his escape he found fresh cause for
anxiety, for he perceived that he was no longer alone. No friends were
near him; but, on, the contrary, he was surrounded by strangers of a far
different aspect. They were men certainly; that is to say, they had
legs and arms, and heads, and bodies as himself; but instead of that
bloom of youth, that regularity of feature, that amiable joyousness of
countenance, which he had ever been accustomed to meet and to love in
his former companions, he recoiled in horror from the swarthy
complexions, the sad visages, and the haggard features of his present
ones. They spoke to him in a harsh and guttural accent. He would have