am ready to start, when of course he will be amply recompensed by seeing me bin; the bargain is agreed to, and the solo duly played.  East of Yennikhan, the road develops into an excellent macadamized highway, on which I find plenty of genuine amusement by electrifying the natives whom I chance to meet or overtake.  Creeping noiselessly up behind an unsuspecting donkey-driver, until quite close, I suddenly reveal my presence.  Looking round and observing a strange, unearthly combination, apparently swooping down upon him, the affrighted katir-jee’s first impulse is to seek refuge in flight, not infrequently bolting clear off the roadway, before venturing upon taking a second look.  Sometimes I simply put on a spurt, and whisk past at a fifteen mile pace.  Looking back, the katir-jee generally seems rooted to the spot with astonishment, and his utter inability to comprehend.  These men will have marvellous tales to tell in their respective villages concerning what they saw; unless other bicycles are introduced, the time the “Ingilisiu” went through the country with his wonderful araba will become a red-letter event in the memory of the people along my route through Asia Minor.  Crossing the Yeldez Irmak Eiver, on a stone bridge, I follow along the valley of the head-waters of our old acquaintance, the Kizil Irmak, and at three o’clock in the afternoon, roll into Sivas, having wheeled nearly fifty miles to-day, the last forty of which will compare favorably in smoothness, though not in leveluess, with any forty-mile stretch I know of in the United States.  Prom Angora I have brought a letter of introduction to Mr. Ernest Weakley, a young Englishman, engaged, together with Mr. Kodigas, a Belgian gentleman, for the Ottoman Government, in collecting the Sivas vilayet’s proportion of the Russian indemnity; and I am soon installed in hospitable quarters.  Sivas artisans enjoy a certain amount of celebrity among their compatriots of other Asia Minor cities for unusual skilfulness. particularly in making filigree silver work.  Toward evening myself and Mr. Weakley take a stroll through the silversmiths’ quarters.  The quarters consist of twenty or thirty small wooden shops, surrounding an oblong court; spreading willows and a tiny rivulet running through it give the place a semi-rural appearance.  In the little open-front workshops, which might more appropriately be called stalls, Armenian silversmiths are seated cross-legged, some working industriously at their trade, others gossiping and sipping coffee with friends or purchasers.

“Doesn’t it call up ideas of what you conceive the quarters of the old alchemists to have been hundreds of years ago.” asks my companion.  “Precisely what I was on the eve of suggesting to you,” I reply, and then we drop into one of the shops, sip coffee with the old silversmith, and examine his filigree jewelry.  There is nothing denoting remarkable skill about any of it; an intricate pattern of their jewelry simply represents a great