over all the land our stranger eyes looked down on. But now
they're nothin' but a side show, as you may say in a museum.

Josiah wuz dretful took with the sights of shops on either side of the
narrow streets of old Cairo and all sorts of trades bein' carried on
there right out doors: goldsmiths and silversmiths makin' their
jewelry right there before you, and Josiah sez: "I lay out to have a
shop rigged out doors to hum and make brooms and feather dusters; and
why don't you, Samantha; how uneek it would be for you to have your
sewin'-machine or your quiltin'-frames in the corner of the fence
between us and old Bobbett's, and have a bedquilt or a crazy blanket
draped behind you on the fence. You could have a kind of a turban if
you wanted to; I would lend you one of my bandannas. I'm goin' to wear
'em in my bazar when I rig one up, and my dressin'-gown, and I shall
have Ury wear one and sandals. I can make some crackin' good sandals
for us all out of shingles, and lace 'em on with colored ribbins. How
dressy they will make me look. I shall lace my sandals on with yeller
and red baby ribbin, them colors are so becomin' and make my
complexion look fairer. We shall jest coin money out of my bazar, and
I shall write to Ury to put in a piece of broom corn, and mebby we
shall make jewelry; we could make some good mournin' jewelry out of
coal and lam-black."

Well, I didn't argy with him, thinkin' most probable that he'd forgit
it, but Arvilly, who wuz with us, sez: "I guess it would be mournin'
jewelry in good earnest if you made it; I guess it would make anybody
mourn to see it, let alone wearin' it."

"Wait till you see it," sez he.

And she sez, "I am perfectly willin' to wait."

"But I shan't set on the floor as they do here," sez he, "I am sorry
for some of them poor old men that can't afford chairs, and I would be
perfectly willin' to make 'em some stools if they'd furnish the
lumber."

Sez I, "It's their way, Josiah, they like it."

"I don't believe it," sez he; "nobody loves to scrooch down flat with
their legs under 'em numb as sticks." But right whilst we were talkin'
we met a funeral procession. The head one had hard work to git through
the crowd crying out:

"There is no deity but God! Mohammed is his apostle!" Then come some
boys singin' a funeral him; and then the bier, borne by friends of the
corpse and covered by a handsome shawl. Then come the hired
mourners--wimmen--for I spoze they think they're us