ads, in the
mountains of Gilead); they got us into no difficulties and subjected us
to no blackmail from humbugging Bedouin chiefs. They are of a
picturesque motley in costume and of a bewildering variety in
creed--Anglican, Catholic, Coptic, Maronite, Greek, Mohammedan, and one
of whom the others say that "he belongs to no religion, but sings
beautiful Persian songs." Yet, so far as we are concerned, they all do
the things they ought to do and leave undone the things they ought not
to do, and their way with us is peace. Much of this, no doubt, is due to
the wisdom, tact, and firmness of George the Bethlehemite, the best of
dragomans.

We have many visitors at the camp, but none unwelcome. The American
Consul, a genial scholar who knows Palestine by heart and has made
valuable contributions to the archaeology of Jerusalem, comes with his
wife to dine with us in the open air. George's gentle wife and his two
bright little boys, Howard and Robert, are with us often. Missionaries
come to tell us of their labours and trials. An Arab hunter, with his
long flintlock musket, brings us beautiful gray partridges which he has
shot among the near-by hills. The stable-master comes day after day
with strings of horses galloping through the grove; for our first mounts
were not to our liking, and we are determined not to start on our longer
ride until we have found steeds that suit us. Peasants from the country
round about bring all sorts of things to sell--vegetables, and lambs,
and pigeons, and old coins, and embroidered caps.

There are two men ploughing in a vineyard behind the camp, beyond the
edge of the grove. The plough is a crooked stick of wood which scratches
the surface of the earth. The vines are lying flat on the ground, still
leafless, closely pruned: they look like big black snakes.

Women of the city, dressed in black and blue silks, with black mantles
over their heads, come out in the afternoon to picnic among the trees.
They sit in little circles on the grass, smoking cigarettes and eating
sweetmeats. If they see us looking at them they draw the corners of
their mantles across the lower part of their faces; but when they think
themselves unobserved they drop their veils and regard us curiously with
lustrous brown eyes.

One morning a procession of rustic women and girls, singing with shrill
voices, pass the camp on their way to the city to buy the bride's
clothes for a wedding. At nightfall they return singing y