sprinkled here and there among the palms of the Wady Feiran were the tents of Arabs. Turning to points still farther away, to the very ends of the wadies, one could see little black patches in the yellow sand, which we had learned to recognize as Arab villages. Strictly speaking, the Arab has no village; he is a nomad, whose only house is a tent, who camps wherever he can find a stream of water, or a little pasturage for his camels, and when that is gone, "folds his tent and silently steals away." How can human beings live in such frightful solitudes? "Why do you not leave this desolate region," said Dr. Post to one of our guides, "and go to Suez or Cairo, where you can find the companionship of men?" "Oh, no," said the Arab, "we cannot leave our mountains and valleys." "And do you really love them?" "Oh, yes," he answered with all the fervor of a Swiss mountaineer in exile, sighing for the cowbells of the Ranz des Vaches. The Doctor was standing on the topmost rock of Serbal, with his spy-glass in hand, following the winding wadies as they swept round and round the base of the mountains. The guide was watching his movements, and observing the instrument pointed in a certain direction, he followed it with eager curiosity. Noticing the expression of his countenance, the Doctor put the glass to his eyes, pointing it to the valley. A moment passed, and a smile stole over the swarthy face of the Bedawee — an expression of wonder and surprise and pleasure. He had recognized the village of his people. There were the little flocks of black goats dotting the hillside. He saw the tents of his tribe, and the children sporting in the sand:
"There were his young barbarians all at play."
What wonder that he loved the spot? Poor and wretched as it was, it was his home, and he would not part from it for all the delights of civilization.
