57° 



The National Geographic Magazine 



Arabic are hurled to and fro, the "Illah !" 

 of a donkey-driver pierces the air, the 

 glissade of the musical French slips in, 

 the kneeling camels in the square roar 

 loudly as the packs are strapped to their 

 backs. There is the rattle of regimental 

 drums, the clear call of the bugle, or the 

 strains of "Partant pour la Syrie." 



In walking one day to an Arab village 

 at a distant end of the oasis, we chanced 

 upon a group of Arab girls bathing in a 

 pool, partly screened by lustrous green 

 foliage. They were splashing and play- 

 ing like ducks, their limbs glistering, their 

 dark hair streaming. Of a second, our 

 approach was seen. That a man — there 

 chanced to be one in our party — should 

 gaze upon their unveiled faces, covered 

 though they might be to their chins in 

 water, was an event to be avoided. There 

 was a short succession of screams, a 

 glimpse of bare feet and bare young 

 bodies as they scampered away, with 

 their burnouses wrapped about their 

 heads, for the faces must be hidden, of 

 course ! 



Murray says : " The street of the 

 Ouled-Nails, with its cafe and oriental 

 dancers, is a place where no European 

 woman should go." Murray failed to 

 taboo the American woman's sightseeing 

 in this Biskran tenderloin. I wonder 

 why ? At all events, being children of our 

 grandmother Eve, we wished to go. In 

 Algiers we had managed to escape from 

 the Spanish courier whom we had had — 

 to speak correctly, he had had us — and, 

 being two lone women, sought in our 

 perplexity as to a chaperon for the cafe 

 the advice of that useful gentlemen, the 

 hotel concierge, who is alike consul, valet- 

 de-place, and interpreter in one. In this 

 particular instance he was a blonde and 

 soldierly German from the Rhineland, al- 

 ways courteous and fatherly, speaking 

 French, German, Italian, English, and 

 Arabic in as many minutes, and equally 

 at home in each. He assured us that we 

 might safely go to the street of the 

 Ouled-Xails and the cafe, and that as our 

 escort he would send a French-speak- 

 ing Arab servant from the hotel ; we were 

 cautioned to leave our money at home. 



giving to Mahamed, the aforesaid Arab, 

 sufficient silver for use. 



There was a mysterious charm in the 

 quiet night as we followed the white fig- 

 ure of Mahamed and the light of his curi- 

 ous old lantern. Other white-robed fig- 

 ures passed or met us, and once or twice 

 the "Allah yahmahnik" (God be with 

 you) of a friend greeted our guide. The 

 stars were intensely bright overhead, and 

 the briskness, purity, and sweetness of 

 the air too delicious to describe. Passing 

 into the street of the Ouled-Nails was a 

 sudden transition to much life, color, and 

 noise, the street itself full- of Arabs, 

 young and old, while on matting outside 

 nearly every door sat the Ouled-Nail 

 girls, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, 

 and chattering what was presumably 

 Biskran slang at any halting passers-by. 



The Ouled-Nails, sometimes called Al- 

 mees, are girls from an oasis at some dis- 

 tance from Biskra, and of mixed Arabian 

 and negro blood. They are more remark- 

 able for their singularity of costume and 

 grace of dancing than for the rigidity of 

 their morals. Their faces are daubed with 

 tar and saffron to accentuate the color of 

 the Afric sun ; tattooing in blue is quite la 

 mode, and their hair, mixed with wool 

 and stiffened with grease and tar, hangs 

 in ebon loops about the face. They wear 

 loose gowns of bright cotton, and gold 

 and silver coin, coral, and filagree in bar- 

 baric abundance, sometimes twenty 

 pounds of silver being carried in the 

 shape of bangles, anklets, chains, and 

 massive girdles. 



From a brightly lighted, low, white 

 building came the discordant music of 

 reed instruments and the tom-tom of 

 harsh drums, and thither we followed 

 Mahamed. The little place was quite 

 filled, a space in the center being reserved 

 for the dancers. In one corner was a 

 little stone furnace, and here an Arab, 

 wearing the turban which denotes a pil- 

 grimage to Mecca accomplished, cooked 

 and served Arabian coffee, the aroma 

 filling the room. What a picture it was, 

 the bright fire and its reflections on the 

 gleaming copper of the tiny coffeepots, 

 the bronze faces under the crimson 



