The Argosy — page 237: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

220 Letters from Majorca. So arm in arm, forgiving and forgetting—it is impossible to be otherwise with A.—we went through the darkened streets of Soller. Lights gleamed from the houses, and in many a court we saw the quaint, old-fashioned, classical-looking lamp casting its glare upon human faces, throwing shadows upon the walls. ‘The patient mule came on behind us, bearing its burden. We turned the corner—the very last turning in our pilgrimage—and in a few moments the hospitable doors of the Fonda del Pastor were thrown open to us. Everything was at once excitement at our appearance, commiseration at not having reached the summit of our ambition, congratulation at our safe return. I sank into the nearest chair, and presently was carried upstairs, just like a wooden image in a procession—and I felt just as much in jeopardy. Of course this was all done in fun—lI was quite capable of walking up. Rosita administered restoratives, having first of all obtained A.’s tacit permission to pay me so much attention. H. C., however, evidently resented it bitterly. A. and B. went in for pome- granates and anisette—such a mixture, you know. H. C. wrote a sonnet, under the inspiration of a cup of coffee. Presently we were all ourselves again, and met round the festive board. ‘The old lady had prepared us everything of which Soller was capable. It was not exactly a Lord Mayor’s feast, but here we are thankful for smal! mercies ; and to-night, by comparison, the mercies were really abun- dant. So ended our ascent of the Puig Major. I never intend to ascend another, for I should never survive it. And nine times out of ten, in ascending mountains, you are dis- appointed. Either storms come on, or the summits are cloud-capped, or the sun never rises. Whatever it may be, something generally happens to mar the expedition. And sometimes, we know, the worst happens. This could not be in climbing the hills of Soller, and we al! returned safe and sound from our pilgrimage. Yet,as you have seen, it was in one sense a failure—for we never reached the top of the Puig at all. And now, to-night, in spite of so much hard and exhausting work, you see I have managed to take up my tale again, and write you a long letter. H. C. is sketching on the other side of the table. He had a supply of soda water brought up into our sitting-room, and has gone in for it rather extensively. It is diluted with stronger waters, how- ever ; and I hear him murmuring and crooning to himself snatches of impromptu verse, of which the burden sounds very much like ‘“ Mariquitarosita,” very crookedly pronounced. I daresay A. is dreaming very much the same sort of thing. Both are evidently living in a fool’s paradise. Let them do so. ‘Les beaux jours de la vie” come only once in our lives. It is far on in the night. Our windows are open to the balmy air. COMIC OOOKS.<o