2. II.
We were taking breath on the silken banks of the
Barbyses—Maimuna prancing along the pebbly bed,
up to her barb's girths in sparkling water, and Job and
myself laughing at her frolics from either side, when
an old woman, bent double with age, came hobbling
toward us from a hovel in the hill-side.
“Maimuna,” said Job, fishing out some trumpery
paras from the corner of his waistcoat pocket, “give
this to that good woman, and tell her that he who gives
it is happy, and would share his joy with her.”
The gipsy spurred up the bank, dismounted at a
short distance from the decrept creature, and after a
little conversation returned, leading her horse.
“She is not a beggar, and wishes to know why you
give her money?”
“Tell her, to buy bread for her children,” said my
patriarchal friend.
Maimuna went back, conversed with her again, and
returned with the money.
“She says she has no need of it. There is no human
creature between her and Allah!”
The old woman hobbled on, Job pocketed his rejected
paras, and Maimuna rode between us in silence.
It was a gem of natural poetry that was worthy of
the lips of an angel.
