At the station we found our car just being attached to the evening-train from Cairo; which train, by the by, had been waiting for us for some time, to the very apparent disgust of the English-speaking and other European passengers. The native passengers seemed to take the delay calmly and as a matter of course, some of them spreading their prayer-carpets upon the platform to recite the evening prayer, to which the muezzins were calling from the minarets as we left the town: "La Illah illa Allah! Mohammed du russul Ala-a-h!" We were soon off, passing through most monotonous scenery, with constantly recurring groups of Fellahs and their animals returning from their long day of labor, and filing along the causeways and embankments toward the mud villages and towns, over which the pigeons were whirling their last flight before betaking themselves to their cotes for the night. The air became cooler and the moon rose as we rolled along the embankment of Lake Mareotis, and the whole scene was so calm and peaceful and conducive to reverie that it seemed a rude awakening when we dashed into the station at Alexandria and the touts and donkey-boys began their tiresome yells and shouts, as if they had never left off since morning: "Onkle Sam, sir! werry good donkey, my master."--"Dis Jim Crow! more better, sir!"--"Hotel Mediterranee, signori!" Bidding good-night to our pleasant and courteous fellow-sightseers, we were soon clattering through the streets to the custom-house landing. Our cutter was waiting: "Up oars! let fall! give way all!" and twenty-four strong, bronzed arms were pulling us over the smooth surface of the moonlit harbor. In ten minutes we were once more on board our floating home, and turned in forthwith, tired enough to sleep without rocking. E. S. ACROSS STRANGE WATERS. These winter days, my love, are short and sad-- Oh, sad and short! But future summers will not make us glad, Of Fate the sport. I go; and where we have been you abide, To face the light Of days that pour their splendor far and wide, And mock the night. How you will hate their brightness well I know-- Their fragrant ways, Thick set with bloom, free winds that come and go, And birds that praise The triumph of the summer, and are glad Of their desire, Fulfilled in warmth, with mirth and music mad, And set on fire Of Love, to whom all sweet things do belong: Those new, bright days, With overflow of blossoms and glad song, You will not praise. Nor shall the swift, short nights, when skies bend low, And through the blue The white moon moves on silently and slow, Bring rest to you.