MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



shouting "Akmet Haffez!" "Akmet Haffezl" 

 as we dismounted rather stiffly. 



I helped take the saddle off my mare, and 

 then we were ushered into a tall, cone-shaped 

 mud house and escorted to a divan where the 

 quilts and rugs were thicker. Before us, face 

 down, on the clean, beautiful quilts, was the 

 cousin of Akmet Haffez. He was mumbling 

 a prayer and our interpreter softly translated 

 it. The prayer was a beautiful sentiment. 

 The petitioner was asking God to release him 

 ever after from work so that he might stand 

 at the caravan routes and tell all generations 

 of the great honor that had been paid to him 

 by us who were going to eat his rice and melons 

 and who were to distinguish him further by 

 sleeping under his shelter. It is true that the 

 prayer was more eloquently thankful than 

 most hosts would indulge in for a party so 

 big and so hungry, but at the close of it we 

 were led out into the yard where all his cattle 

 and goats and sheep were resting and the sight 

 of them made us more cheerful. Then we 

 were taken into the cone-shaped mud house and 

 there was a feast, long to be remembered. 



It was spread on low tables about a foot 

 from the ground, with short-legged little 



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