into this forest to enable the people to haul wood and building-timber on their arabas.  Arriving at a good-sized and comparatively well-to-do Mussulman village, I obtain an ample supper of eggs and pillau, and, after binning over and over again until the most unconscionable Turk among them all can bring himself to importune me no more, I obtain a little peace.  Supper for two, together with the tough hill-climbing to-day, and insufficient sleep last night, produces its natural effect; I quietly doze off to sleep while sitting on the divan of a small khan, which might very appropriately be called an open shed.  Soon I am awakened; they want me to accommodate them by binning once more before they retire for the night.  As the moon is shining brightly, I offer no objections, knowing that to grant the request will be the quickest way to get rid of their worry.  They then provide me with quilts, and I spend the night in the khan alone.  I am soon asleep, but one habitually sleeps lightly under these strange and ever-varying conditions, and several times I am awakened by dogs invading the khan and sniffing — about my couch.  My daily experience among these people is teaching me the commendable habit of rising with the lark; not that I am an enthusiastic student, or even a willing one — be it observed that few people are — but it is a case of either turning out and sneaking off before the inhabitants are astir, or to be worried from one’s waking moments to the departure from the village, and of the two evils one comes finally to prefer the early rising.  One can always obtain something to eat before starting by waiting till an hour after sunrise, but I have had quite enough of these people’s importunities to make breakfasting with them a secondary consideration, and so pull out at early daylight.  The road is exceptionally good, but an east wind rises with the sun and quickly develops into a stiff breeze that renders riding against it anything but child’s play; no rose is to be expected without a thorn, nevertheless it is rather aggravating to have the good road and the howling head-wind happen together, especially in traversing a country where good roads are the exception instead of the rule.  About eight o’clock I reach a village situated at the entrance to a rocky defile, with a babbling brook dancing through the space between its two divisions.  Upon inquiring for refreshments, a man immediately orders his wife to bring me pillau.  For some reason or other — perhaps the poor woman has none prepared; who knows? — the woman, instead of obeying the command like a “guid wifey,” enters upon a wordy demurrer, whereupon her husband borrows a hoe-handle from a bystander and advances to chastise her for daring to thus hesitate about obeying his orders; the woman retreats precipitately into the house, heaping Turkish epithets on her devoted husband’s head.  This woman is evidently a regular termagant, or she would never have used such violent language to her husband in the presence