ds of water-ditches winding and
twisting among them, the water escaping through broken banks and creating
new confusion where confusion already reigns supreme. Among this
indescribable jumble of mud, water, rocks, ruins, and cultivation,
pitched almost at an angle of forty-five degrees, the natives climb about
bare-legged, impressing one very forcibly as so many human goats as they
scale the walls, clamber over rocks, or wade through mud and water.

A willing Foorgian divests himself of everything but his hat, and carries
the bicycle across the stream, while I am taken up behind the mirza. As
the mirza's iron-gray gingerly enters the water, an interesting and
instructive spectacle is afforded by a hundred or more Foorgians
following the shining example of the classic figure carrying the bicycle,
for the purpose of being on hand to see me start across the plain toward
Tabbas.

Some of these good people are wearing turbans the size of a bandbox;
others wear enormous sheep-skin busbies. A number of tall, angular
figures stemming the turbid stream in the elegant costumes of our first
parents, but wearing Khorassani busbies or Beerjand turbans, makes a
bizarre and striking picture.

A gravelly trail, with the gradient slightly in my favor, enables me to
create a better impression of a bicycler's capabilities on the mind of
the mirza and the sowar than was possible yesterday, by quickly leaving
them far in the rear. Some miles are covered when I make a halt for them
to overtake me, seeking the welcome shelter of a half-ruined wayside
umbar.

An Eliaute camp is but a short distance away, and several sun-painted
children of the desert are eagerly interviewing the bicycle when my
escort comes galloping along; not seeing me anywhere in view ahead, they
had wondered what had become of their wheel-winged charge and are quite
relieved at finding me here hobnobbing with the Eliautes behind the
umbar.

The mirza's fond mother-in-law has presented him with a quantity of dried
pears with half a walnut imbedded in each quarter; during a brief halt at
the umbar these Darmian delicacies are fished out of his saddle-bags and
duly pronounced upon, and the genial Eliautes contribute flowing bowls of
doke (soured milk, prepared in some manner that prevents its spoiling).

High noon finds us at our destination for the day, the village of Tabbas,
famous in all the country around for a peculiar windmill used in grinding
grain. A grist-mill