"Sorrow endureth for a night," says the proverb, "but joy cometh
in the morning." The first object that met my eyes, on leaving my room
this morning, was Dolores, with the truant pigeon in her hands, and
her eyes sparkling with joy. He had appeared at an early hour on the
battlements, hovering shyly about from roof to roof, but at length
entered the window, and surrendered himself prisoner. He gained little
credit, however, by his return; for the ravenous manner in which he
devoured the food set before him showed that, like the prodigal son,
he had been driven home by sheer famine. Dolores upbraided him for his
faithless conduct, calling him all manner of vagrant names, though,
woman-like, she fondled him at the same time to her bosom, and covered
him with kisses. I observed, however, that she had taken care to
clip his wings to prevent all future soarings; a precaution which I
mention for the benefit of all those who have truant lovers or
wandering husbands. More than one valuable moral might be drawn from
the story of Dolores and her pigeon.
The Balcony.
I HAVE spoken of a balcony of the central window of the Hall of
Ambassadors. It served as a kind of observatory, where I used often to
take my seat, and consider not merely the heaven above but the earth
beneath. Besides the magnificent prospect which it commanded of
mountain, valley, and vega, there was a little busy scene of human
life laid open to inspection immediately below.
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