nika remained calm. They were
used to it. Foreign troops were always landing at Salonika. The oldest
inhabitant could remember, among others, those of Alexander the Great,
Mark Antony, Constantine, the Sultan Murad, and several hundred thousand
French and English who over their armor wore a red cross. So he was not
surprised when, after seven hundred years, the French and English
returned, still wearing the red cross.

[Illustration: "In Salonika the water-front belongs to everybody."]

One of the greatest assets of those who live in a seaport city is a view
of their harbor. As a rule, that view is hidden from them by zinc sheds
on the wharfs and warehouses. But in Salonika the water-front belongs to
everybody. To the north it encloses the harbor in a great half-moon
that from tip to tip measures three miles. At the western tip of this
crescent are tucked away the wharfs for the big steamers, the bonded
warehouses, the customs, the goods-sheds. The rest of the water-front
is open to the people and to the small sailing vessels. For over a mile
it is bordered by a stone quay, with stone steps leading down to the
rowboats. Along this quay runs the principal street, and on the side
of it that faces the harbor, in an unbroken row, are the hotels, the
houses of the rich Turks and Jews, clubs, restaurants, cafes, and
moving-picture theatres. At night, when these places are blazing with
electric lights, the curving water-front is as bright as Broadway--but
Broadway with one-half of the street in darkness. On the dark side of
the street, to the quay, are moored hundreds of sailing vessels. Except
that they are painted and gilded differently, they look like sisters.
They are fat, squat sisters with the lines of half a cantaloupe. Each
has a single mast and a lateen-sail, like the Italian felucca and the
sailing boats of the Nile. When they are moored to the quay and the
sail is furled, each yard-arm, in a graceful, sweeping curve, slants
downward. Against the sky, in wonderful confusion, they follow the edge
of the half-moon; the masts a forest of dead tree trunks, the slanting
yards giant quill pens dipping into an ink-well. Their hulls are rich in
gilding and in colors--green, red, pink, and blue. At night the electric
signs of a moving-picture palace on the opposite side of the street
illuminate them from bow to stern. It is one of those bizarre contrasts
you find in the Near East. On one side of the quay a perfectly modern
h