Photograph by H. G. Dwight 



TURKISH HOUSES IN SALONIKI 



This picturesque bridge, color-washed in red. and frescoed in quaint landscapes, leads from 

 the mansion of its owner to his garden across the street 



for true bell towers. Then, as you land 

 at the quay you perceive that the electric 

 cars are labeled in strange alphabets. 

 The cafes do not look quite as they 

 should, either. 



A COSMOPOLITAN ASPECT 



As for the people in them, a good many 

 would pass without question. Just such 

 slight and trim young men in Italy would 

 sit at little tables on the sidewalk. Just 

 such young women, rather pale and pow- 

 dered as to complexion, rather dusky as 

 to eyes and hair, would sit beside them. 

 And you hear a good deal of Italian. 

 But you hear more of other and less 



familiar languages. And those red fezzes 

 are a new note. So are those more 

 numerous hay-colored uniforms that sat 

 at no caffe in my Italian days. 



A more striking note is afforded by 

 numerous dignified old gentlemen taking 

 their ease in bath-robes, as it were, slit a 

 little up the side and tied about the waist 

 with a gay silk girdle. Over the bath- 

 robe they usually wear a long, open coat 

 lined with yellow fur, which guards them 

 from the cold in winter and in summer 

 from the heat. And none of them is 

 without a string of beads, preferably of 

 amber, dangling from his hand and giv- 

 ing him something to play with. 



