in its robes of shining green. After nightfall we reached our tents,

just outside of the nasty Arab village of Jonesborough. Of course the

real name of the place is El something or other, but the boys still

refuse to recognize the Arab names or try to pronounce them. When I say

that that village is of the usual style, I mean to insinuate that all

Syrian villages within fifty miles of Damascus are alike--so much alike

that it would require more than human intelligence to tell wherein one

differed from another. A Syrian village is a hive of huts one story high

(the height of a man,) and as square as a dry-goods box; it is

mud-plastered all over, flat roof and all, and generally whitewashed

after a fashion. The same roof often extends over half the town,

covering many of the streets, which are generally about a yard wide.

When you ride through one of these villages at noon-day, you first meet

a melancholy dog, that looks up at you and silently begs that you won't

run over him, but he does not offer to get out of the way; next you meet

a young boy without any clothes on, and he holds out his hand and says

"Bucksheesh!"--he don't really expect a cent, but then he learned to

say that before he learned to say mother, and now he can not break

himself of it; next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn closely

over her face, and her bust exposed; finally, you come to several

sore-eyed children and children in all stages of mutilation and decay;

and sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a

poor devil whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape-vines.

These are all the people you are likely to see. The balance of the

population are asleep within doors, or abroad tending goats in the

plains and on the hill-sides. The village is built on some consumptive

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The Innocents Abroad