Leonardo
"Sebastiano, what ails thee," asked Gonzalez, "why blinkest thou at the sky?" "Oh, 'tis nothing; but a jay bird sat majestic on you hickory limb, and when he winked at me should I not wink at him? Perhaps he knows where there is gold." "Gold I believe in when I see it, but in omens I do not believe." "I do. I had a dream the other night when everything was still--" "A fig for thy dreams." "By our good Saint Augustine," said Padre Rotundo, "as thou saidst figs, we will have some figs. Bring me the figs of Smyrna that remain in the boat, and we will plant the seeds. Haply in this genial land the fig will prosper, and many that come after us shall bless us. Yea, my son, there shall be in this land fountains and streams of perpetual youth. They shall flow from the North and West and East, and be of many generations. In magnolia parks and orange groves and by the river St. John's, eyes shall look love to eyes that speak again; and there shall be many a sly flirtation by the light of the chandelier in the halls of And there shall be gold, Sebastiano, but not for thee. The hotel-keepers of the future shall see it. Gold and letters of credit from the frozen North. Golden oranges, too, that shall make this land wear a likeness to the gardens of thy native Seville." "Padre," said Ponce de Leon, drawing near and speaking in a low tone, "dost remember the convent garden near Seville, into which we stole, thou and I, when we were small boys, to see thy sister once more? And dost remember the spicy breeze that was wafted to us from the refectory, where the sisters were preparing confections and conserves of orange flowers? And dost remember how they caught us and made us work till our arms did ache, at pounding orange rinds in a mortar; whilst thou didst nearly roast at stirring orange jam?" "Tut, tut," returned the Padre, "I choose not to remember such undignified incidents. Yet if thou wilt, thou mayst compare the delicate fancy of those good women for confections made of flowers, with the cruel extravagance of the pagan Romans who desolated the groves, and made costly dishes of the tongues of thousands of singing birds, and thou wilt concede the finer grace of the later day."
But Ponce de Leon had not been listening. His thoughts were far away, and he sighed, "Her bright smile haunts me still.'