they could not pay for his services, and he would pay for all.  He offered to give him a goat skin bottle of semin (Arab butter) and several sheep, but Ali was unable to carry either, and declined the offer.  Ali brought a specimen of Bedawin bread.  It is black, coarse, and mixed with ashes and sand.  The Bedawin pound their wheat, and knead the coarse gritty flour without sifting, and bake it on the heated earthen ovens.

The Bedawin swarm with vermin.  Their garments, their persons, their tents and their mats are literally alive with the third plague of Egypt, lice!  Ali soon found himself completely overrun with them, and was almost driven wild.  The Sitt Harba urged him to try the Bedawin remedy for cleansing his head.  On inquiring what it was, he declared he would rather have the disease than the remedy!  After his return to his village in Lebanon, he spent several days in ablutions and purifications before venturing to bring me his report.  The Sitt Harba gave him a collection of the nursery rhymes which she and the Bedawin women sing to their little brown babies, and some of them will be found in the “Children’s Chapter” of this volume.  The Sheikh Mohammed, who can neither read nor write, repeated to Ali the following Kosideh or Song, which he composed in Arabic poetry, after his victory over Feisal, of the Ruella tribe, in 1866.  The Ruellas had previously driven Mohammed’s tribe from one of the finest pasture regions in Howian, and Ed Dukhy regained it after a desperate struggle.

    Oh fair and beautiful plain, oh rich green Bedawin pasture. 
    We had left you, too often stained, with the blood of violent
        battle;
    Ah, dark disastrous day, when brother abandoned his brother,
    Though riding the fleetest of mares, and safe from pursuit of the
        foeman,
    He never once turned to inquire, though we tasted the cup of
        destruction. 
    Oh fair and beautiful plain, we yesterday fought and regained thee! 
    I praise and honor His name, who only the victory giveth! 
    O, Feisal, we’ve meted to you your deserts in royal measure;
    With our spears so burning and sharp, we cut off the necks of your
        Arabs,
    O, Shepherd of Obaid, you fled deserting your pastures,
    Biting your finger in pain and regret for your sad disasters—­
    Savage hyena, come forth, from your lair in the land of Jedaileh,
    Howl to your fellow-beasts, in the distant land of Butina;
    Come and eat your fill of the dead in the Plain of Fada,
    O, fair and beautiful plain, you belong to the tribe of the victor;
    But Feisal is racked with pain, when he hears the battle story,
    Our right-handed spearmen have palsied his arm is its strength and
        power;
    A blow fell hard on his breast, from the hand of our Anazy warriors;
    Come now, ye who wish for peace, we are ready in honor to meet you!
    Our wrongs are all avenged, and our arms are weary of battle.