And so, while that baby-Tantalus, catching glimpses, over the
unveiled shoulder, of the Micawberian fount he cannot reach,
stretches his little brown arms, bites, kicks, and squalls,--while a
small female apprentice, by way of chorus, in costume and gesture
absurdly caricaturing her _prima donna_, (a sort of Cossitollah
marchioness, indeed, for some Dick Swiveller of the Sahibs,) shuffles
rheumatically with her feet, or impotently dislocates her slender
arms, or pounds insanely on a cracked tomtom, or jangles her clumsy
cymbals, while the squatting bearers cry, "_Wah wah!_" and clap
their sweaty hands,--our poor old glee-maiden of Cossitollah strums
her two-stringed guitar, letting the baby slide, and creaks
corkscrewishly her _Chota, chota natchelee_:--
_Badi suba choo boog zuree,
Bar suri kove an puree,
Qassue Hufiz ush bigo
Tazu bu tazu, nou bu nou!_
"Zephyrs, while you gently move
By the mansion of my love,
Softly Hafiz' strains repeat,
Ever new and ever sweet!"
Heaven save the key!
"_Ka munkta_, Bearer?--What is it, my gentle Karlee?"
"_Chittee, Sahib!--chittee_ for Master."
"Note, hey? from whom? let us see!"
Pink paper,--scented with sandal-wood, pah!--embossed, too, with
cornucopias in the corners,--seal motto, _Qui hi?_ ("Who waits?")--
denoting that the bearer is to bring an answer.
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