A JOURNEY IN MOROCCO 
only too well that few women had ever 
penetrated into the interior of the coun- 
try, and that the presence of Mrs. Blay- 
ney complicated matters considerably. 
To the credit of my wife be it said that 
if she realized the dangers that sur- 
rounded her, she preserved the same out- 
ward coolness and nerve she has so often 
shown in trying moments in various parts 
of the world.. As we emerged into the 
open country and new scenes began to 
present themselves, our spirits began to 
return. Now and then we passed squalid 
villages, with their ever-present dung- 
heap, on top of which often sat the chief 
man of the village, as upon a throne, sur- 
rounded by his wives, slaves, and others, 
all wrapt in oriental silence and eyeing 
us curiously. My wife, being unveiled 
and upon a European side-saddle, was al- 
ways the center of attraction. 
THE ARTERIES OF TRAFFIC 
The road we were traveling that day 
deserves description, for, being one of 
the chief arteries of traffic, what is said 
of it applies equally well to all other 
roads of the Empire. It consisted of a 
series of bridle paths, more or less paral- 
lel (generally less), varying from three 
to a dozen or more in number, according 
to the nature of the ground. Where the 
soil is soft, these paths or trails are worn 
three feet or so deep and are just wide 
enough to admit the legs of a horse or 
camel, so that at times the rider must 
hold up his feet to prevent them from 
touching the ground. A curious sight it 
is to stand some distance to one side of a 
trail of this kind and watch a moving 
horseman, for he has every appearance 
of gliding over the plain on a legless 
steed. There are no cuttings, no bridges. 
Not wishing to make a long stage that 
first day, our caravan had received orders 
to await us at the first low range of hills 
to the south. Just before sunset we 
found our tents pitched and tea and cakes 
awaiting us. Having refreshed ourselves 
and taking one of our muleteers as a 
guard, we climbed to the top of a high, 
rocky hill dominating the plain and lower 
foothills toward Tangier. 
Photo by George E. Holt 
A “HURDY-GURDY” IN TANGIER 
Pastoral indeed was the scene at our 
feet. To the right wound a little spark- 
ling river across the green plain, on the 
banks of which grazed cattle and sheep. 
Near the foot of the hill stretched a 
rambling village, the thatched roofs of 
the huts giving a dash of dark brown to 
the green of the plain. Here and there a 
Moorish doorway of horseshoe form 
stood out at that late hour like a black 
geometrical figure on the white walls. 
Just outside the village lay our camp, the 
tents glistening white in the last rays of 
