brown nurse, or mayhap a buxom young one, at your bedside, with ever and anon a lettle more panada, (d----n panada, I had forgotten that!) “and den some more sangaree; it will do massa good, strengthen him tomack”--and, but I am out of breath, and must lie to for a brief space. I opened my eyes late in the morning of the second day after landing, and saw Mr Fyall and the excellent Aaron Bang sitting one on each side of my bed. Although weak as a sucking infant, I had a strong persuasion on my mind that all danger was over, and that I was convalescent. I had no feverish symptom whatsoever, but felt cool and comfortable, with a fine balmy moisture on my skin; as yet, however, I spoke with great difficulty. Aaron noticed this. “Don’t exert yourself too much, Tom; take it coolly, man, and thank God that you are now fairly round the corner. Is your head painful?” “No--why should it?” Mr Fyall smiled, and I put up my hand--it was all I could do, for my limbs appeared loaded with lead at the extremities, and when I touched any part of my frame, with my hand for instance, there was no concurring sensation conveyed by the nerves of the two parts; sometimes I felt as if touched by the hand of another; at others, as if I had touched the person of some one else. When I raised my hand to my forehead, my fingers instinctively moved to take hold of my hair, for I was in no small degree proud of some luxuriant brown curls, which the women used to praise. Alas and alack-a-day! in place of ringlets, glossy with Macassar oil, I found a cool young tender plantain-leaf bound round my temples. “What is all this?” said I. “A kale-blade, where my hair used to be!” “How came this kale-blade here, And how came it here?” Sung friend Bang, laughing, for he had great powers of laughter, and I saw he kept his quizzical face turned towards some object at the head of the bed, which I could not see. “You may say that, Aaron--where’s my wig, you rogue, eh?” “Never mind, Tom,” said Fyall, “your hair will soon grow again, won’t it, miss?” “Miss! miss!” and I screwed my neck round, and lo!--“Ah, Mary, and are you the Delilah who have shorn my locks--you wicked young female lady you!” She smiled and nodded to Aaron, who was a deuced favourite with the ladies, black, brown, and white, (I give the pas to the staple of the country--hope no offence,) as well as with every one else who ever knew him. “How dare you, friend Bang, shave and blister my head, you dog?” said I. “You cannibal Indian, you have scalped me; you are a regular Mohawk.” “Never mind, Tom--never mind, my boy,” said he. “Ay, you may blush, Mary Palma. Cringle there will fight, but he will have ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat’ for his motto yet, take my word for it.”