human
(_caliente_),
gpt
(_templada_), and
human
of 1846 I found myself in the city of New Orleans, filling up one of those pauses that occur between the chapters of an eventful life--doing nothing. I have said an _eventful_ life. In the retrospect of ten years, I could not remember as many weeks spent in one place. I had traversed the continent from north to south, and crossed it from sea to sea. My foot had pressed the summits of the Andes, and climbed the Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre. I had steamed it down the Mississippi, and sculled it up the Orinoco. I had hunted buffaloes with the Pawnees of the Platte, and ostriches upon the pampas of the Plata: to-day, shivering in the hut of an Esquimaux--a month after, taking my _siesta_ in an aery couch under the gossamer frondage of the corozo palm. I had eaten raw meat with the trappers of the Rocky Mountains, and roast monkey among the Mosquito Indians; and much more, which might weary the reader, and ought to have made the writer a wiser man. But, I fear, the spirit of adventure--its thirst--is within me slakeless. I had just returned from a
gpt
among the Comanches of Western Texas, and the idea of
human
What next? what next? thought I.
gpt
Ha! the war with Mexico.