noise and strife of politics, far from the bewildering tangle of thought, far from the vain hopes and dreams and ambitions of life, he lives each day as if it were the last of the world. Here are joys manifold for a weary and persecuted spirit: the joy of having your dearest friend and comrade with you; the joy of nursing and helping to restore to health and happiness the woman dearest to your heart; the joy of a Love budding in beauty and profusion; and—this, the rarest and sublimest for Khalid—the joy of worshipping at the cradle—of fondling, caressing, and bringing up one of the brightest, sweetest, loveliest of babes.
Najib is his name—it were cruel to neutralise such a prodigy—and he is just learning to walk and lisp. Khalid teaches him the first step and the first monosyllable, receiving in return the first kiss which his infant lips could voice. With what joy Najib makes his first ten steps! With what zest would he practise on the soft sands, laughing as he falls, and rising to try again. And thus, does he quickly, wonderfully develop, unfolding in the little circle of his caressers—in his mother’s lap, in Shakib’s arms, on Khalid’s back, on Mrs. Gotfry’s knee—the irresistible charm of his precocious spirit.
In two months of desert life, Najib could run on the sands and sit down when tired to rest; in two months he could imitate in voice and gesture whatever he heard or saw:
- the donkey’s bray, and with a tilt of the head like him;
- the cry of the cock;
- the shrill whistle of the train; and
- the howling of donkey boys.
His keen sense of discrimination in sounds is incredible. And one day, seeing a Mohammedan spreading his rug to pray, he begins to kneel and kiss the ground in imitation of him. He even went into the tent and brought Khalid’s jubbah to spread it on the sand likewise for that purpose.