MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



The sun rose hot, and at first felt comfort- 

 able after the rush of the night. The roadbed 

 was now strewn with small, round, loose stones 

 about the size of hens' eggs and worn smooth 

 by the cushioned feet of camels. 



The last change of horses was truly remark- 

 able. There were only three this time and they 

 looked like old moth-eaten silk rugs. Two 

 were white and silvery; the third was a bay 

 with a coat as bright as gold. We saw them 

 gallop over the stones for six or eight miles, 

 and when they stopped for water, the bay 

 pawed the stones and had to be held while the 

 others drank. We both commented time and 

 again on what our best horses would become 

 under such conditions. From their appear- 

 ance, these animals were of great age, and cer- 

 tainly their usage had been the hardest jDossible. 

 Still, their legs were as clean as those of a colt. 



Our entry into Aleppo was made in the fore- 

 noon. The sun was as hot as it could possibly 

 be, without burning things — and we came in 

 on the dead run. They put us out in the 

 suburbs, because the mail officer (honest man!) 

 was afraid we should be seen. The mail driver 

 made us understand by his motions and the 

 word "Arabeeye" (carriage), that he would 



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