Twenty-One Days in India; and, the Teapot Series eBook

George Robert Aberigh-Mackay
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 153 pages of information about Twenty-One Days in India; and, the Teapot Series.

So when in after days we boast
Of many wild boars slain,
We’ll not forget our runs to toast
Or run them o’er again;

And when our memory’s mirror true
Reflects the scenes of yore,
We’ll think of him it brings to view,
Who loved to hunt the boar.




[Illustration:  THE GRASS WIDOW—­“Sweet little Mrs. Lollipop.”]

Her bosom’s lord sits lightly on his throne?

[December 6, 1879]

Little Mrs. Lollipop has certainly proved a source of disappointment to her lady friends.  They have watched her for three seasons going lightly and merrily through all the gaieties of Cloudland; they have listened to the scandal of the cuckoos among the pine-trees and rhododendrons, but they have not caught her tripping.  Oh, no, they will never catch her tripping.  She does not trip for their amusement:  perhaps she trips it when they go on the light fantastic toe, but there is no evidence; there is only a zephyr of conjecture, only the world’s low whisper not yet broken into storm—­not yet.

Yes, she is a source of disappointment to them.  They have noted her points; her beauty has burned itself into their jealousy; her merry laugh has fanned their scorn; her bountiful presence is an affront to them, as is her ripe and lissom figure.  They pronounce her morally unsound; they say her nature has a taint; they chill her popularity with silent smiles of slow disparagement.  But they have no particulars; their slander is not concrete.  It is an amorphous accusation, sweeping and vague, spleen-born and proofless.

She certainly knows how to dress.  Her weeds sit easily and smoothly on their delightful mould.  You might think of her as a sweet, warm statue painted in water-colours. (Who wouldn’t be her Pygmalion?) If she adds a garment it is an improvement; if she removes a garment it is an improvement; if she dresses her hair it is better; if she lets it fall in a brown cascade over her white shoulders it is still better; when it is yet in curl-papers it is charming.  If you smudge the tip of her nose with a burnt cork the effect is irresistible; if you stick a flower in her hair it is a fancy dress, a complete costume—­she becomes Flora, Aurora, anything you like to name.  Yet I have never clothed her in a flower, I have never smudged her nose with a burnt cork, I have never uncurled her hair.  Ali Baba’s character must not go drifting down the stream of gossip with the Hill Captains and the Under-Secretaries.  But I hope that this does not destroy the argument.  The argument is that she is quite too delightful, and therefore blown upon by poisonous whispers.

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Twenty-One Days in India; and, the Teapot Series from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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