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ever present and sad reality of the tropical clime fatal to so many, you would explain, I want to lie on your bosom isle and resign America, that I harken to your surf beaten shore and for ever view the growth of your valleys and glory of your mountains and forget that there in the pain of the little romantic world Isthmuses are many and the vines that cover them as lovely as a beautiful dream but I could not describe this coast line if I should try for language would seem tame or overdrawn. I could rave over the perpendicular and hanging cliffs clothed in such varied briny green and ornamented with such blossoms as only grow on Cuban soil, but it would be vain for I would depict unworthily splendor. It is enough to say that Cuba is the pearl of the Antilles. It is decked in the colors of the rainbow with a green ribbon interwoven to hold it forever. As you prepare to lie and dream of the