to the thirsty wayfarer for the inhospitableness of its surroundings.  Miles away to the northward, perched high up among the ravines of a sun-baked mountain-spur, one can see a circumscribed area of luxuriant foliage.  This conspicuous oasis in the desert marks the source of the beautiful road-side fountain, which traverses a natural subterranean passage-way between these two distant points.  These little isolated clumps of waving trees, rearing their green heads conspicuously above the surrounding barrenness, are an unerring indication of both water and human habitations.  Often one sees them suddenly when least expected, nestling in a little depression high up some mountain-slope far away, the little dark-green area looking almost black in contrast with the whitish color of the hills.  These are literally “oases in the desert,” on a small scale, and although from a distance no sign of human habitations appeal, since they are but mud-hovels corresponding in color to the hills themselves, a closer examination invariably reveals well-worn donkey-trails leading from different directions to the spot, and perchance a white-turbaned donkey-rider slowly wending his way along a trail.

The heat becomes almost unbearable; the region of treeless, shelterless hills continues to characterize my way, and when, at two o’clock P.M., I reach the town of Bey Bazaar, I conclude that the thirty-nine miles already covered is the limit of discretion to-day, considering the oppressive heat, and seek the friendly accommodation of a khan.  There I find that while shelter from the fierce heat of the sun is obtainable, peace and quiet are altogether out of the question.  Bey Bazaar is a place of eight thousand inhabitants, and the khan at once becomes the objective point of, it seems to me, half the population.  I put the machine up on a barricaded yattack-divan, and climb up after it; here I am out of the meddlesome reach of the " madding crowd,” but there is no escaping from the bedlam-like clamor of their voices, and not a few, yielding to their uncontrollable curiosity, undertake to invade my retreat; these invariably “skedaddle” respectfully at my request, but new-comers are continually intruding.  The tumult is quite deafening, and I should certainly not be surprised to have the khan-jee request me to leave the place, on the reasonable ground that my presence is, under the circumstances, detrimental to his interests, since the crush is so great that transacting business is out of the question.  The khan-jee, however, proves to be a speculative individual, and quite contrary thoughts are occupying his mind.  His subordinate, the kahvay-jee, presents himself with mournful countenance and humble attitude, points with a perplexed air to the surging mass of fezzes, turbans, and upturned Turkish faces, and explains — what needs no explanation other than the evidence of one’s own eyes — that he cannot transact his business of making coffee.

“This is your khan,” I reply; “why not turn them out.”  “Mashallah, effendi.  I would, but for everyone I turned out, two others would come in-the sons of burnt fathers.” he says, casting a reproachful look down at the straggling crowd of his fellow-countrymen.