My route now leads up a rocky ravine, the road being fairly under cover of over-arching rocks at times, thence over a billowy region of mountain summits-an elevated region of pine-clad ridges and rocky peaks-to descend again into a cultivated country of undulating hills and dales, checkered with fields of grain.  These low rolling hills appear to be in a higher state of cultivation than any district I have traversed in Asia Minor; from points of vantage the whole country immediately around looks like a swelling sea of golden grain; harvesting is going merrily on; men and women are reaping side by side in the fields, and the songs of the women come floating through the air from all directions.  They are Armenian peasants, for I am now in Armenia proper; the inhabitants of this particular locality impress me as a light hearted, industrious people; they have an abundant harvest, and it is a pleasure to stand and see them reap, and listen to the singing of the women; moreover they are more respectably clothed than the lower class natives round about them, barring, of course, our unfathomable acquaintances, the Circassians.

Toward the eastern extremity of this peaceful, happy scene is the village of Kachahurda, which I reach soon after noon, and where resides Mfrdura Ghana, to whom I bring a letter.  Picturesquely speaking, Kachahurda is a disgrace to the neighborhood in which it stands; its mud hovels are combined cow-pens, chicken-coops, and human habitations, and they are bunched up together without any pretence to order or regularity; yet the light-hearted, decently-clad people, whose songs come floating from the harvest-fields, live contentedly in this and other equally wretched villages round about.  Mudura Ghana provides me with a repast of bread and yaort, and endeavors to make my brief halt comfortable.  While I am discussing these refreshments, himself and another unwashed, unkempt old party come to high, angry words about me; but whatever it is about I haven’t the slightest idea.  Mine host seems a regular old savage when angry.  He is the happy possessor of a pair of powerful lungs, which are ably seconded by a foghorn voice, and he howls at the other man like an enraged bull.  The other man doesn’t seem to mind it, though, and keeps up his end of the controversy — or whatever it is — in a comparatively cool and aggravating manner, that seems to feed Mudura Ghana’s righteous wrath, until I quite expect to see that outraged person reach down one of the swords off the wall and hack his opponent into sausage-meat.  Once I venture to inquire, as far as one can inquire by pantomime, what they are quarrelling so violently about me for, being really inquisitive to find out They both immediately cease hostilities to assure me that it is nothing for which I am in any way personally responsible; and then they straightway fall to glaring savagely at each other again, and renew their vocal warfare more vigorously, if anything, from having just