ding-herd of camels, browsing on the
short grass. The old ones are in the process of the spring moulting;
their thick, matted hair is peeling off in large flakes, like fragments
of a ragged, moth-eaten coat. The young ones are covered with pearl-gray
wool, soft and almost downy, like gigantic goslings with four legs.
(What is the word for a young camel, I wonder; is it camelet or
camelot?) But young and old have a family resemblance of ugliness.

The camel is the most ungainly and stupid of God's useful beasts--an
awkward necessity--the humpbacked ship of the desert. The Arabs have a
story which runs thus: "What did Allah say when He had finished making
the camel? He couldn't say anything; He just looked at the camel, and
laughed, and laughed!"

But in spite of his ridiculous appearance the camel seems satisfied with
himself; in fact there is an expression of supreme contempt in his face
when he droops his pendulous lower lip and wrinkles his nose, which has
led the Arabs to tell another story about him: "Why does the camel
despise his master? Because man knows only the ninety-nine common names
of Allah; but the hundredth name, the wonderful name, the beautiful
name, is a secret revealed to the camel alone. Therefore he scorns the
whole race of men."

The cattle that feed around the edges of this peaceful plain are small
and nimble, as if they were used to long, rough journeys. The prevailing
colour is black, or rusty brown. They are evidently of a degenerate and
played-out stock. Even the heifers are used for ploughing, and they look
but little larger than the donkeys which are often yoked beside them.
They come around the grassy knoll when our luncheon-tent is pitched,
and stare at us very much as the people stared in Es Salt.

In the afternoon we pass over the rim of the broad vale and descend a
narrower ravine, where oaks and terebinths, laurels and balsams,
pistachios and almonds are growing. The grass springs thick and lush,
tall weeds and trailing vines appear, a murmur of flowing water is heard
under the tangled herbage at the bottom of the wadi. Presently we are
following a bright little brook, crossing and recrossing it as it leads
us toward our camp-ground.

There are the tents, standing in a line on the flowery bank of the
brook, across the water from the trail. A few steps lower down there is
a well-built stone basin with a copious spring gushing into it from the
hillside under an arched roof. Here the