ece. The shepherds in their strange mantles and head-dresses looked
very picturesque as they spread the wool and tended their flocks. Our
_caiquegee_, as the oarsman of a caique is called, ought not to be
overlooked. His costume was in keeping with his pretty caique, which was
painted a delicate straw-color and had white linen cushions. He was a
tall, finely-built fellow, a Cretan or Bulgarian I should think, for he
looked too wide awake for a Turk. The sun had burned his olive
complexion to the deepest brown, and his black eyes and white teeth when
he smiled lighted up his intelligent face, making him very handsome. He
wore a turban, loose shirt with hanging sleeves and voluminous trousers,
all of snowy whiteness. A blue jacket embroidered with gilt braid was in
readiness to put on when he stopped rowing. It must have taken a ruinous
amount of material to make those trousers. They were full at the waist
and knee, and before seating himself to his oars he gracefully threw the
extra amount of the fullness which drooped behind over the wide seat as
a lady spreads out her overskirt.

[Illustration: SHEPHERDS.]

Last night we bade farewell to the strange old city with its picturesque
sights, its glorious views and the many points of interest we had grown
so familiar with. Our adieus were said, the ammales had taken our
baggage to the steamer, which lay at anchor off Seraglio Point, and
before dark we went on board, ready to sail at an early hour.

The bustle of getting underway at daylight this morning woke me, and I
went on deck in time to take a farewell look. The first rays of the sun
were just touching the top of the Galata Tower and lighting up the dark
cypresses in the palace-grounds above us. The tall minarets and the blue
waves of the Bosphorus caught the golden light, while around Olympus the
rosy tint had not yet faded and the morning mists looked golden in the
sunlight. We rounded Seraglio Point and steamed down the Marmora, passed
the Seven Towers, and slowly the beautiful city faded from our view.

SHEILA HALE.

THEE AND YOU.

A STORY OF OLD PHILADELPHIA. IN TWO PARTS.--I.

Once on a time I was leaning over a book of the costumes of forty years
before, when a little lady said to me, "How ever could they have loved
one another in such queer bonnets?" And now that since then long years
have sped away, and the little critic is, alas! no longer young, haply
her children, looking up at her picture by