It is midnight, now, and we break camp at six in the
morning.
They call this camping out. At this rate it
is a glorious privilege to be a pilgrim to the Holy
Land.
We are camped near Temnin-el-Foka—a name
which the boys have simplified a good deal, for the
sake of convenience in spelling. They call it
Jacksonville. It sounds a little strangely, here
in the Valley of Lebanon, but it has the merit of
being easier to remember than the Arabic name.
“Comelike spirits, so depart.”
“The night shall
be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.”
I slept very soundly last night, yet when the dragoman’s
bell rang at half-past five this morning and the cry
went abroad of “Ten minutes to dress for breakfast!”
I heard both. It surprised me, because I have
not heard the breakfast gong in the ship for a month,
and whenever we have had occasion to fire a salute
at daylight, I have only found it out in the course
of conversation afterward. However, camping out,
even though it be in a gorgeous tent, makes one fresh
and lively in the morning —especially if
the air you are breathing is the cool, fresh air of
the mountains.
I was dressed within the ten minutes, and came out.
The saloon tent had been stripped of its sides, and
had nothing left but its roof; so when we sat down
to table we could look out over a noble panorama of
mountain, sea and hazy valley. And sitting thus,
the sun rose slowly up and suffused the picture with
a world of rich coloring.
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,
