It is not necessary to water so much when the wind blows
strong. As I rode through the green fields along the dyke, a little boy
sang as he turned round on the musically-creaking Sakiah (the water-wheel
turned by an ox) the one eternal Sakiah tune--the words are _ad libitum_,
and my little friend chanted 'Turn oh Sakiah to the right and turn to the
left--who will take care of me if my father dies? Turn oh Sakiah, etc.,
pour water for the figs and the grass and for the watermelons. Turn oh
Sakiah!' Nothing is so pathetic as that Sakiah song.

I passed the house of the Sheykh-el-Ababdeh, who called out to me to take
coffee. The moon was splendid and the scene was lovely. The handsome
black-brown Sheykh in dark robes and white turban, Omar in a graceful
white gown and red turban, and the wild Ababdeh in all manner of dingy
white rags, and with every kind of uncouth weapon, spears, matchlocks,
etc., in every kind of wild and graceful attitude, with their long black
ringlets and bare heads, a few little black-brown children quite naked
and shaped like Cupids. And there we sat and looked so romantic and
talked quite like ladies and gentlemen about the merits of Sakna and
Almas, the two great rival women-singers of Cairo. I think the Sheykh
wished to display his experiences of fashionable life.

The Copts are now fasting and cross. They fast fifty-five days for Lent;
no meat, fish, eggs, or milk, no exception for Sundays, no food till
after twelve at noon, and no intercourse with the hareem. The only
comfort is lots of arrak, and what a Copt can carry decently is an
unknown quantity; one seldom sees them drunk, but they imbibe awful
quantities. They offer me wine and arrak always, and can't think why I
don't drink it. I believe they suspect my Christianity in consequence of
my preference for Nile water. As to that, though, they scorn all
heretics, _i.e._, all Christians but themselves and the Abyssinians, more
than they do the Muslims, and dislike them more; the procession of the
Holy Ghost question divides us with the Gulf of Jehannum. The gardener
of this house is a Copt, such a nice fellow, and he and Omar chaff one
another about religion with the utmost good humour; indeed they are
seldom touchy with the Moslems. There is a pretty little man called
Michail, a Copt, vakeel to M. Mounier. I wish I could draw him to show a
perfect specimen of the ancient Egyptian race; his blood must be quite
unmixed. He cam