This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide, Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways, Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing, And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on the pavements. Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta; When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to laughter; Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams, Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their kisses, Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero, And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas. Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight, Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate lovers. Cocom was completely ignorant of his real age. He might have been a hundred, and he certainly looked as though he had completed his century. Long ago he had left off counting the flying years and meditating on the mutability of human life. In fact, he had changed so little that it is doubtful whether he believed in mutability at all. Wrinkled he was, it is true, and slightly bent, but his black eyes twinkled with the fire of youth, and he enjoyed his meals. These things argue juvenility, and, as Cocom possessed them, he evidently knew the secret of immortality. Perhaps he had found that fountain of youth spoken of by Ponce de Leon. If so, it had affected his soul not his body. He looked like Methuselah. Yet he was wonderfully active considering his years, and undertook to introduce Peter to the butterflies of Central America. Arrayed in his white cotton drawers and shirt, with his pink zarape gracefully draped over his bent shoulders, he smoked a long black cigar, and waited the orders of the "Americanos" in stolid silence. Peter was affectionately handling his butterfly-net, Tim was finishing his breakfast, and Jack, in a smart riding-dress, was slashing his high boots with his whip, impatient to get away. They were looking at Cocom, who had just arrived, and waiting for Philip, who, as usual, was late for breakfast. "He looks too old to be of much use," said the doctor, disconsolately; "why couldn't Don Miguel send me a man instead of a mummy?" "Perhaps the mummy is well up in entomology!" "He ought to be that same!" cried Tim, with his mouth full; "he's had plenty of time to learn, anyhow. Ask the old cocoanut his age, Jack." "Don't you take liberties with his name, Tim. Cocom was a king of Mayapan; and this, I presume, is his descendant." "Royalty out at elbows!" said Peter, blandly. "It's a king, is it?" remarked Tim, staring at the Indian. "He looks a mighty second-hand sort of article. I should be a king myself. Wasn't one of my ancestors King of Cork?"