Presently a wild Arab in charge of a camel train recognized an old friend in Ferguson, and they ran and fell upon each other’s necks and kissed each other’s grimy, bearded faces upon both cheeks.  It explained instantly a something which had always seemed to me only a farfetched Oriental figure of speech.  I refer to the circumstance of Christ’s rebuking a Pharisee, or some such character, and reminding him that from him he had received no “kiss of welcome.”  It did not seem reasonable to me that men should kiss each other, but I am aware, now, that they did.  There was reason in it, too.  The custom was natural and proper; because people must kiss, and a man would not be likely to kiss one of the women of this country of his own free will and accord.  One must travel, to learn.  Every day, now, old Scriptural phrases that never possessed any significance for me before, take to themselves a meaning.

We journeyed around the base of the mountain—­“Little Hermon,”—­past the old Crusaders’ castle of El Fuleh, and arrived at Shunem.  This was another Magdala, to a fraction, frescoes and all.  Here, tradition says, the prophet Samuel was born, and here the Shunamite woman built a little house upon the city wall for the accommodation of the prophet Elisha.  Elisha asked her what she expected in return.  It was a perfectly natural question, for these people are and were in the habit of proffering favors and services and then expecting and begging for pay.  Elisha knew them well.  He could not comprehend that any body should build for him that humble little chamber for the mere sake of old friendship, and with no selfish motive whatever.  It used to seem a very impolite, not to say a rude, question, for Elisha to ask the woman, but it does not seem so to me now.  The woman said she expected nothing.  Then for her goodness and her unselfishness, he rejoiced her heart with the news that she should bear a son.  It was a high reward—­but she would not have thanked him for a daughter—­daughters have always been unpopular here.  The son was born, grew, waxed strong, died.  Elisha restored him to life in Shunem.

We found here a grove of lemon trees—­cool, shady, hung with fruit.  One is apt to overestimate beauty when it is rare, but to me this grove seemed very beautiful.  It was beautiful.  I do not overestimate it.  I must always remember Shunem gratefully, as a place which gave to us this leafy shelter after our long, hot ride.  We lunched, rested, chatted, smoked our pipes an hour, and then mounted and moved on.

As we trotted across the Plain of Jezreel, we met half a dozen Digger Indians (Bedouins) with very long spears in their hands, cavorting around on old crowbait horses, and spearing imaginary enemies; whooping, and fluttering their rags in the wind, and carrying on in every respect like a pack of hopeless lunatics.  At last, here were the “wild, free sons of the desert, speeding over the plain like the wind,