is a piece of wagon-road immediately outside the town, I succeed in silencing the clamor to so mo extent by promising to ride when the araba yole is reached; whereupon hundreds come flocking out of town, following expectantly at my heels.  Consoling myself with the thought that perhaps I will be able to mount and shake the clamorous multitude off by a spurt, the promised araba yole is announced; but the fates are plainly against me to-day, for I find this road leading up a mountain slope from the very beginning.  The people cluster expectantly around, while I endeavor to explain that they are doomed to disappointment — that to be disappointed in their expectations to see the araba ridden is plainly their kismet, for the hill is too steep to be ridden.  They laugh knowingly and give me to understand that they are not quite such simpletons as to think that an araba cannot be ridden along an araba yole. " This is an araba yole,” they argue, “you are riding an araba; we have seen even our own clumsily-made arabas go up here time and again, therefore it is evident that you are not sincere,” and they gather closer around and spend another ten minutes in coaxing.  It is a ridiculous position to be in; these people use the most endearing terms imaginable; some of them kiss the bicycle and would get down and kiss my dust-begrimed moccasins if I would permit it; at coaxing they are the most persevering people I ever saw.  To. convince them of the impossibility of riding up the hill I allow a muscular young Turk to climb into the saddle and try to propel himself forward while I hold him up.  This has the desired effect, and they accompany me farther up the slope to where they fancy it to be somewhat less steep, a score of all too-willing hands being extended to assist in trundling the machine.  Here again I am subjected to another interval of coaxing; and this same annoying programme is carried out several times before I obtain my release.  They are the most headstrong, persistent people I have yet encountered; the natural pig-headed disposition of the “unspeakable Turk” seems to fairly run riot in this little valley, which at the point where Torbali is situated contracts to a mere ravine between rugged heights.

For a full mile up the mountain road, and with a patient insistence quite commendable in itself, they persist in their aggravating attentions; aggravating, notwithstanding that they remain in the best of humor, and treat me with the greatest consideration in every other respect, promptly and severely checking any unruly conduct among the youngsters, which once or twice reveals itself in the shape of a stone pitched into the wheel, or some other pleasantry peculiar to the immature Turkish mind.  At length one enterprising young man, with wild visions of a flying wheelman descending the mountain road with lightning-like velocity, comes prominently to the fore, and unblushingly announces that they have been bringing me along the wrong road; and, with something