with the hair singed off him in such wide and well defined tracts that he

looks like a map of the new Territories. They are the sorriest beasts

that breathe--the most abject--the most pitiful. In their faces is a

settled expression of melancholy, an air of hopeless despondency. The

hairless patches on a scalded dog are preferred by the fleas of

Constantinople to a wider range on a healthier dog; and the exposed

places suit the fleas exactly. I saw a dog of this kind start to nibble

at a flea--a fly attracted his attention, and he made a snatch at him;

the flea called for him once more, and that forever unsettled him; he

looked sadly at his flea-pasture, then sadly looked at his bald spot.

Then he heaved a sigh and dropped his head resignedly upon his paws. He

was not equal to the situation.

The dogs sleep in the streets, all over the city. From one end of the

street to the other, I suppose they will average about eight or ten to a

block. Sometimes, of course, there are fifteen or twenty to a block.

They do not belong to any body, and they seem to have no close personal

friendships among each other. But they district the city themselves, and

the dogs of each district, whether it be half a block in extent, or ten

blocks, have to remain within its bounds. Woe to a dog if he crosses the

line! His neighbors would snatch the balance of his hair off in a

second. So it is said. But they don't look it.

They sleep in the streets these days. They are my compass--my guide.

When I see the dogs sleep placidly on, while men, sheep, geese, and all

moving things turn out and go around them, I know I am not in the great

420

The Innocents Abroad