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l^HE National Geographic Magazine 



shoulders could scarce pass. Where 

 they broadened, verandas appeared on 

 the street side of the houses, and there 

 were little windows, into which we might 

 peer, upon whitewashed rooms, with 

 iron bedsteads and a few sacred pictures. 



Some schoolboys, playing in the 

 shadow of a garden wall, sprang to atten- 

 tion and saluted as we passed, and we 

 noted their caps, the rims of alpaca, the 

 top a flat piece of scarlet cloth, with a 

 Maltese cross of gilt. Both boys and 

 girls wear a set form of clothing in Bul- 

 garia, altered just a trifle, according to 

 their grade ; so that if mischief is done 

 by the young, one needs only to go 

 through the particular schoolroom to find 

 the offender. This uniformity likewise 

 does away with the envy between poor 

 and rich. 



Again, a peddler passes by, but in Tir- 

 nova both these and the beggars are few. 

 Peasants in costume are met now and 

 then, though European dress has the 

 preference. 



In a booth, among the number of local 

 views offered for sale, we find a souvenir 

 post-card with the profile of Roosevelt. 

 In contrast, pictures of Prince Ferdinand 

 are decidedly rare ; and yet the Prince 

 is quite popular. 



Tirnova is closing her shops for the 

 night. The strings of flat, red, dried 

 sausages, suspended before the booths, 

 like a row of the seeds of the thorn tree, 

 are being taken down. An army ofHcer, 

 in coat and cap of white and blue trou- 

 sers, takes his roast of mutton, and the 

 butcher shuts the door. The manna in 

 the fruit stores is being stowed away, 

 and where fancy candles are on sale a 

 Turkish woman, her face covered save 

 for the space between upper lip and eye- 

 lids, scurries by, intent on one last pur- 

 chase. One building", much like an ar- 

 cade, but open to the sky, houses a series 

 of stores, and these, too, are closing. 



We were going to enter some of these 

 when Friend, in that convulsive way of 

 his, grasped me by the arm. 



"Look! Oh, look ! T/t^re is the Pride 

 of Bulgaria!" and he sighed nervously. 



I looked in the direction in which his 

 finger turned, and there, on the balcony, 

 was a Madonna of the Balkans — one of 

 those rare beauties of the south Slav race, 

 which is not especially noted for its beau- 

 tiful women, who linger in one's mem- 

 or}' long after every other iota of their 

 towns and homes has been forgotten. My 

 Lady of Tirnova was a subject for the 

 artist's brush, as we saw her, framed by 

 the window of a quaint three-story home 

 of pink, and with the flowers of the por- 

 tico forming the base of the picture. Her 

 eyes were of the brown-black of the lower 

 Balkans ; her skin was tanned to olive ; 

 her face had the smile of an upland girl, 

 and her hair, parted in the middle, was 

 of the hue of the raven. She was indeed 

 a Juliet for a Balkan Romeo. Nor would 

 she be party to the least flirtation, but, 

 catching our eyes, she turned her head, 

 showing a half dozen tiny braids emerging 

 from the rear of the head-kerchief, and 

 disappeared into the chamber. Friend 

 went into the bakery below and bought 

 a loaf of native bread "to munch," he 

 said, though he fed the greater part to 

 the pigs and the ponies we met on the 

 Prince's highway ; but I forbore to ques- 

 tion, save to remark that the native folk 

 were watching us askance at such ex- 

 travagance. Bread is four full cents the 

 loaf in Tirnova. 



Three schoolboys, speaking French, 

 followed us, and then became our guides, 

 taking us where old Turks argued in the 

 meat bazaar, among hanging, dripping 

 sides of lamb, and where the ox teams 

 drew the heavy carts into the noisy 

 smiths' quarter, where countrymen, in 

 turbans and striped shirts and bloomer- 

 pants, brought their ponies to be shod ; 

 and then to the very outskirts, where the 

 African buffalo is seen, nestling beside 

 the carts to which he is hitched, while the 

 peasant does his errands in the town or, 

 later, builds his camp-fire at the bison's 

 side, and, gathering his family about 

 him, roasts the piquant paprika (the 

 mango, or good angel of the Balkans) 

 and drinks his wine, the scene resembling 

 most a prairie encampment in our own 



