ded a second time with almost equal violence, and showers were by
no means infrequent. (It may be mentioned in parenthesis that there was
heavy rain at Luxor, four hundred and fifty miles south of Cairo, on the
19th of February.) One does not object to these rains; they are in
themselves agreeable; one wishes simply to note the impudence of the
widely diffused statement that Egypt is a rainless land. So far nothing
has been said against the winter climate of Cairo; objection has been
made merely to the fireless condition of the houses--a fault which can
be remedied. But now a real enemy must be mentioned--namely, the kamsin.
This is a hot wind from the south, which parches the skin and takes the
life out of one; it fills the air with a thick grayness, which you
cannot call mist, because it is perfectly dry, and through which the sun
goes on steadily shining, with a light so weird that one can think of
nothing but the feelings of the last man, or the opening of the sixth
seal. The regular kamsin season does not begin before May; the
occasional days of it that bring suffering to travellers occur in
February, March, and April. But what are five or six days of kamsin amid
four winter months whose average temperature is 58 deg. Fahrenheit? It is
human nature to detect faults in climates which have been greatly
praised, just as one counts every freckle on a fair face that is
celebrated for its beauty. Give Cairo a few hearth fires, and its winter
climate will seem delightful; although not so perfect as that of
Florida, in our country, because in Florida there are no January
mosquitoes.

MOSQUES

It must be remembered that Cairo is Arabian. "The Nile is Egypt," says a
proverb. The Nile is mythical, Pharaonic, Ptolemaic; but Cairo owes its
existence solely to the Arabian conquerors of the country, who built a
fortress and palace here in A.D. 969.

Very Arabian is still the call to prayer which is chanted by the
muezzins from the minarets of the mosques several times during the day.
We were passing through a crowded quarter near the Mooski one afternoon
in January, when there was wafted across the consciousness a faint,
sweet sound. It was far away, and one heard it half impatiently at
first, unwilling to lift one's attention even for an instant from the
motley scenes nearer at hand. But at length, teased into it by the very
sweetness, we raised our eyes, and then it was seen that it came from a
half-ruined minaret far abov