MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



that he does not have time to work. As long 

 as he has enough for himself and his horses he 

 is perfectly willing to lead the hand-to-mouth 

 existence which his ancestors have led for hun- 

 dreds of years before him. To-day he does 

 not know where he will be to-morrow. Al- 

 though he has, in a way, a fixed route of travel 

 he can never be sure that it will be carried out 

 entirely according to the rule. He does not 

 sow any crops, for he does not know 

 who will reap them — almost certainly not him- 

 self. Why then should he work? He can al- 

 ways depend upon his brother, the farmer. 



But underneath his indolence of manner, 

 his slowness of movement and his chariness of 

 speech — behind all his apparent inertia and 

 lack of initiative — every now and then you get 

 a glimpse of a crude, elemental force, the ex- 

 istence of which you had not even guessed. 



At first it startles you. You have been re- 

 ceived with the grace and charm of true hos- 

 pitality. You have been made entirely at 

 home in your strange surroundings. You 

 have given up wondering how such polished 

 gentlemen (and I use the term in its best 

 sense) could be found in such a desolate, bar- 

 ren, God-forsaken country. Then — just a 



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