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Updated: June 21, 2025
So we journeyed on, through the terrible hills and deserts and the roasting sun, and then far into the night, seeking the honored pool of Baalam's ass, the patron saint of all pilgrims like us.
It is the principal source of the Abana river only one-half mile down to where it joins. Beautiful place giant trees all around so shady and cool, if one could keep awake vast stream gushes straight out from under the mountain in a torrent. Over it is a very ancient ruin, with no known history supposed to have been for the worship of the deity of the fountain or Baalam's ass or somebody.
Among these may be mentioned Richard Brinsley Twain, alias Guy Fawkes; John Wentworth Twain, alias Sixteen-String Jack; William Hogarth Twain, alias Jack Sheppard; Ananias Twain, alias Baron Munchausen; John George Twain, alias Captain Kydd; and then there are George Francis Twain, Tom Pepper, Nebuchadnezzar, and Baalam's Ass they all belong to our family, but to a branch of it somewhat distinctly removed from the honorable direct line in fact, a collateral branch, whose members chiefly differ from the ancient stock in that, in order to acquire the notoriety we have always yearned and hungered for, they have got into a low way of going to jail instead of getting hanged.
Beautiful stream in a chasm, lined thick with pomegranate, fig, olive and quince orchards, and nooned an hour at the celebrated Baalam's Ass Fountain of Figia, second in size in Syria, and the coldest water out of Siberia guide-books do not say Baalam's ass ever drank there somebody been imposing on the pilgrims, may be. Bathed in it Jack and I. Only a second ice-water.
Beautiful stream in a chasm, lined thick with pomegranate, fig, olive and quince orchards, and nooned an hour at the celebrated Baalam's Ass Fountain of Figia, second in size in Syria, and the coldest water out of Siberia guide-books do not say Baalam's ass ever drank there somebody been imposing on the pilgrims, may be. Bathed in it Jack and I. Only a second ice-water.
One might swing a cat in it, perhaps, but not a long cat. The hold forward of the bulkhead had but little freight in it, and from morning till night a portly old rooster, with a voice like Baalam's ass, and the same disposition to use it, strutted up and down in that part of the vessel and crowed.
Beautiful stream in a chasm, lined thick with pomegranate, fig, olive and quince orchards, and nooned an hour at the celebrated Baalam's Ass Fountain of Figia, second in size in Syria, and the coldest water out of Siberia guide-books do not say Baalam's ass ever drank there somebody been imposing on the pilgrims, may be. Bathed in it Jack and I. Only a second ice-water.
So we journeyed on, through the terrible hills and deserts and the roasting sun, and then far into the night, seeking the honored pool of Baalam's ass, the patron saint of all pilgrims like us.
I have said I like them, and I do like them but every time they read me a scorcher of a lecture I mean to talk back in print. Not content with doubling the legitimate stages, they switched off the main road and went away out of the way to visit an absurd fountain called Figia, because Baalam's ass had drank there once.
It is the principal source of the Abana river only one-half mile down to where it joins. Beautiful place giant trees all around so shady and cool, if one could keep awake vast stream gushes straight out from under the mountain in a torrent. Over it is a very ancient ruin, with no known history supposed to have been for the worship of the deity of the fountain or Baalam's ass or somebody.
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