* * * * *
MY HEATHEN AT HOME.
Kicking my "Dutch wife,"[3] that comfortable Batavian device, to the
foot of the bed, and turning over with a delicious stretch just as day
began to dawn, I opened my eyes with a drowsy sense of refreshing
favor,--a half-dream, mixed of burning and breeze,--and discovered old
Karlee, my pearl of bhearers,[4] waiting in still patience on the
outside of the tent-like mosquito curtain, punka in hand, and tenderly
waving a balmy blessing across the sirocco-plagued sand of my slumber.
"Good morning, Karlee."
"_Salaam, Sahib-bhote-bhote salaam!_[5] Master catch plenty good isleep
this night, Karlee hope."
"So, so,--so, so. But you look happy this morning; your eyes are bright,
and your kummerbund[6] jaunty, and you sport a new turban. What's the
good news, old man?"
"Yes, Sahib. Large joy Karlee have got,--happy _kismut_,[7]--too much
jolly good luck, master, please."
"Aha! I'm glad of it. None too jolly for my patient Karlee, I'll
engage,--not a whit too happy and proud for my faithful, grateful,
humble old man. And what is it?"
"By master's favor, one man-child have got; one fine son he come this
night, please master's graciousness.
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