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 street where the hotel is, and must go further.  In the Grand Rue the dogs have a sort of air of being on the lookout—­an air born of being obliged to get out of the way of many carriages every day—­and that expression one recognizes in a moment.  It does not exist upon the face of any dog without the confines of that street.  All others sleep placidly and keep no watch.  They would not move, though the Sultan himself passed by.

In one narrow street (but none of them are wide) I saw three dogs lying coiled up, about a foot or two apart.  End to end they lay, and so they just bridged the street neatly, from gutter to gutter.  A drove of a hundred sheep came along.  They stepped right over the dogs, the rear crowding the front, impatient to get on.  The dogs looked lazily up, flinched a little when the impatient feet of the sheep touched their raw backs—­sighed, and lay peacefully down again.  No talk could be plainer than that.  So some of the sheep jumped over them and others scrambled between, occasionally chipping a leg with their sharp hoofs, and when the whole flock had made the trip, the dogs sneezed a little, in the cloud of dust, but never budged their bodies an inch.  I thought I was lazy, but I am a steam-engine compared to a Constantinople dog.  But was not that a singular scene for a city of a million inhabitants?