In Macao

Charles A. Gunnison
In Macao

The Project Gutenberg eBook, In Macao, by Charles A. Gunnison
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: In Macao
Author: Charles A. Gunnison

Release Date: June 22, 2006 [eBook #18658]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN
MACAO***
E-text prepared by Martin Pettit and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)

IN MACAO.
by

CHARLES A. GUNNISON.

Press of Commercial Publishing Co. 34 California St., S.F.

FRAU JULIE FISCHER.
geb. von Seckendorff-Gutend.
Die beifolgenden, widme ich Ihnen, als Beweis in welch'
unvergesslicher Erinnerung, die von mir in Beyern verlebte Zeit,
gehalten wird, und besonders die unvergleichlichen Tage welche ich im
Rothem Schloss zu Obernzeen zubringen durfte, Tage welche zu den
schoensten meines Lebens zaehlten, und nie aus meinem Herzen
verwischt werden koennen.
Charles A. Gunnison.
San Francisco, Cal., Xmas, 1892.

California.
This is thy form, dear, native home of mine,-- A gold-net hammock
swung from palm to pine, Moved by the breezes of the peaceful sea,
And in the net, smiling so drowsily, My mother California, queen
divine, Rests, while the poppy garlands her entwine.
In her warm arms, 'neath cloudless summer skies, As child I heard her
bee-hummed lullabies, Saw her red malvas, blue nemophylæ, Pink
manzanitas, deep-hued laurel tree, And what were marvels to my
childish eyes, Her mariposas, (tethered butterflies).
What of the rich and wondrous foreign things Which each new tide to
her in tribute brings! Although from olive, orange, fig, and vine, Her
own fond children all their wealth consign, 'Tis Flora's gifts my royal

mother sings, As, joined to palm and pine, her hammock swings.

In Macao.
A Story from the "Grasshopper's Library."
I was seated one pleasant day in the garden, which was given to the city
of Macao by the Marcos family, near the grotto sacred to the poet
Camoens, when a Portuguese priest came from among the wilderness
of flowers and sat beside me. He spoke English with a pleasant accent
and we read Bowring's effusion together, as it is engraved on the
marble slab nearby. Scarcely had we finished, and the father was telling
me of Goa in India, when my uncle Robert came from beneath the great
banyan tree and stood before us. The father jumped to his feet, and
throwing back his brown robe, rushed forward toward my uncle with a
stilletto held ready for an upward stroke. Quickly my uncle drew a
revolver and fired--and the father fell dead at my feet.
I
To those who have been in Southern Europe and have seen the towns
along the Riviera, the first view of Macao, as the steamboat approaches
from Hong Kong, gives the impression of having been suddenly
transported to the sunny Mediterranean. Were it not for the colour of
the water, and the Chinese junks, Macao would indeed be a perfect
representation of any of those lovely spots, as she lies along her
crescent bay, from Mount Nillau to Mount Charil, defended by the
frowning forts of Sam Francisco and Our Lady of Bom Parto. Beautiful
as this picture is, it was doubly so in the brilliant sunset colouring of a
certain March day, as the steamer slowly came to her wharf and the
passengers stepped ashore beneath the blue and white flag of Portugal,
in this, her farthest eastern possession. The houses with their delicate
washings of pink, blue, yellow or green, with white stucco ornaments,
now golden in the light, had a warmth of colouring well set off by the
dark foliage of camphor and banyan trees showing above the garden
walls. The few passengers soon dispersed, in chairs or on foot, leaving

but one of their number upon the wharf. He was apparently expecting
some one to come for him, for he refused all offers of assistance from
the coolies and seated himself just outside the gate. American, of
medium height, brown haired and tanned by a tropical sun, Robert
Adams was as good a specimen of Anglo Saxon youth as England
herself could boast of. He was the last descendant of a New England
family, which had preserved its purity for three centuries as unmixed
with continental blood as though the three centuries had been passed in
the quiet vales of Devon, instead of in the New World with its broken
barriers.
For three years, after a successful college course, he had been in the
only shipping house in Hong Kong which sickly American commerce
of the day was able to support in the once flourishing China trade. A
small
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code

 / 14
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.