Shrieks and groans! cries and curses! It seems a golden Hell! With many camels, a sleek stranger comes-- pauses before the shining heaps, and shows _his_ treasures: yams and bread-fruit.

'Give, give,' the famished hunters cry--, 'a thousand shekels for a yam!--a prince's ransom for a meal!--Oh, stranger! on our knees we worship thee:--take, take our gold; but let us live!' Yams are thrown them and they fight.

Then he who toiled not, dug not, slaved not, straight loads his caravans with gold; regains the beach, and swift embarks for home.

'Home! home!' the hunters cry, with bursting eyes.

'With this bright gold, could we but join our waiting wives, who wring their hands on distant shores, all then were well.