Hot mutton chops, fried chicken, omelettes, fried potatoes and coffee —­all excellent.  This was the bill of fare.  It was sauced with a savage appetite purchased by hard riding the day before, and refreshing sleep in a pure atmosphere.  As I called for a second cup of coffee, I glanced over my shoulder, and behold our white village was gone—­the splendid tents had vanished like magic!  It was wonderful how quickly those Arabs had “folded their tents;” and it was wonderful, also, how quickly they had gathered the thousand odds and ends of the camp together and disappeared with them.

By half-past six we were under way, and all the Syrian world seemed to be under way also.  The road was filled with mule trains and long processions of camels.  This reminds me that we have been trying for some time to think what a camel looks like, and now we have made it out.  When he is down on all his knees, flat on his breast to receive his load, he looks something like a goose swimming; and when he is upright he looks like an ostrich with an extra set of legs.  Camels are not beautiful, and their long under lip gives them an exceedingly “gallus”—­[Excuse the slang, no other word will describe it]—­expression.  They have immense, flat, forked cushions of feet, that make a track in the dust like a pie with a slice cut out of it.  They are not particular about their diet.  They would eat a tombstone if they could bite it.  A thistle grows about here which has needles on it that would pierce through leather, I think; if one touches you, you can find relief in nothing but profanity.  The camels eat these.  They show by their actions that they enjoy them.  I suppose it would be a real treat to a camel to have a keg of nails for supper.

While I am speaking of animals, I will mention that I have a horse now by the name of “Jericho.”  He is a mare.  I have seen remarkable horses before, but none so remarkable as this.  I wanted a horse that could shy, and this one fills the bill.  I had an idea that shying indicated spirit.  If I was correct, I have got the most spirited horse on earth.  He shies at every thing he comes across, with the utmost impartiality.  He appears to have a mortal dread of telegraph poles, especially; and it is fortunate that these are on both sides of the road, because as it is now, I never fall off twice in succession on the same side.  If I fell on the same side always, it would get to be monotonous after a while.  This creature has scared at every thing he has seen to-day, except a haystack.  He walked up to that with an intrepidity and a recklessness that were astonishing.  And it would fill any one with admiration to see how he preserves his self-possession in the presence of a barley sack.  This dare-devil bravery will be the death of this horse some day.

He is not particularly fast, but I think he will get me through the Holy Land.  He has only one fault.  His tail has been chopped off or else he has sat down on it too hard, some time or other, and he has to fight the flies with his heels.  This is all very well, but when he tries to kick a fly off the top of his head with his hind foot, it is too much variety.  He is going to get himself into trouble that way some day.  He reaches around and bites my legs too.  I do not care particularly about that, only I do not like to see a horse too sociable.