“My lord, why this mirth?  Let us be serious.  Although man is no longer a kangaroo, he may be said to be an inferior species of plant.  Plants proper are perhaps insensible of the circulation of their sap:  we mortals are physically unconscious of the circulation of the blood; and for many ages were not even aware of the fact.  Plants know nothing of their interiors:—­three score years and ten we trundle about ours, and never get a peep at them; plants stand on their stalks:—­we stalk on our legs; no plant flourishes over its dead root:—­dead in the grave, man lives no longer above ground; plants die without food:—­so we.  And now for the difference.  Plants elegantly inhale nourishment, without looking it up:  like lords, they stand still and are served; and though green, never suffer from the colic:—­whereas, we mortals must forage all round for our food:  we cram our insides; and are loaded down with odious sacks and intestines.  Plants make love and multiply; but excel us in all amorous enticements, wooing and winning by soft pollens and essences.  Plants abide in one place, and live:  we must travel or die.  Plants flourish without us:  we must perish without them.”

“Enough Azzageddi!” cried Media.  “Open not thy lips till to-morrow."’

CHAPTER LII The Charming Yoomy Sings

The morrow came; and three abreast, with snorting prows, we raced along; our mat-sails panting to the breeze.  All present partook of the life of the air; and unanimously Yoomy was called upon for a song.  The canoes were passing a long, white reef, sparkling with shells, like a jeweler’s case:  and thus Yoomy sang in the same old strain as of yore; beginning aloud, where he had left off in his soul:—­

    Her sweet, sweet mouth! 
      The peach-pearl shell:—­
    Red edged its lips,
      That softly swell,
    Just oped to speak,
    With blushing cheek,
      That fisherman
    With lonely spear
      On the reef ken,
    And lift to ear
    Its voice to hear,—­
      Soft sighing South! 
    Like this, like this,—­
    The rosy kiss!—­
      That maiden’s mouth. 
    A shell! a shell! 
    A vocal shell! 
      Song-dreaming,
    In its inmost dell!

  Her bosom!  Two buds half blown, they tell;
    A little valley between perfuming;
          That roves away,
          Deserting the day,—­
      The day of her eyes illuming;—­
    That roves away, o’er slope and fell,
    Till a soft, soft meadow becomes the dell.

Thus far, old Mohi had been wriggling about in his seat, twitching his beard, and at every couplet looking up expectantly, as if he desired the company to think, that he was counting upon that line as the last; But now, starting to his feet, he exclaimed, “Hold, minstrel! thy muse’s drapery is becoming disordered:  no more!”

“Then no more it shall be,” said Yoomy, “But you have lost a glorious sequel.”