He cried caw, caw.

A chicken I found
With a loaf of bread--
I asked him to feed me.
He cried, enough said.

And an eagle black
With a beam on his back
Said from Egypt I come
And he cried clack, clack.

So you see the Arab boys are as fond of plays and songs as American
boys. They have scores of songs about gazelles, and pearls, and Sultans,
and Bedawin, and Ghouls, and the "Ghuz," and the Evil Eye, and Arab
mares and Pashas.

A few days ago a Druze, named Sheikh Ali, called upon me and recited to
me a strange song, which reminded me of the story of "Who killed Cock
Robin," and "The House that Jack built." In some of the Arab villages
where fleas abound, the people go at times to the tennur or oven, (which
is like a great earthen jar sunken in the ground,) to shake off the
fleas into the fire. The story which I have translated goes thus: A
brilliant bug and a noble flea once went to the oven to shake off the
ignoble fleas from their garments into the fire. But alas, alas, the
noble flea lost his footing, fell into the fire and was consumed. Then
the brilliant bug began to weep and mourn, saying,

Alas! Ah me!
The Noble Flea!
While he was thus weeping,
And his sad watch keeping,
A glossy raven overhead,
Flew swiftly down and gently said,
Oh my friend, oh brilliant bug,
Why are you weeping on the rug?
The bug replied, O glossy raven,
With your head all shorn and shaven,
I am now weeping,
And sad watch keeping,
Over, Ah me!
The Noble Flea.
The raven he,
Wept over the flea,
And flew to a green palm tree--
And in grief, _dropped a feather_,
Like snow in winter weather.
The palm tree said my glossy raven,
Why do you look so craven,
Why did you drop a feather,
Like snow in winter weather?
The raven said,
The flea is dead!
I saw the brilliant bug weeping
And his sad watch keeping,
Alas, Alas, Ah me!
Over the Noble Flea.
Then the green Palm tree,
Wept over the noble flea.
Said he, The flea is dead!
And _all his branches shed_!
The Shaggy Wolf he strayed,
To rest in the Palm tree's shade
He saw the branches broken,
Of deepest grief the token,
And said, Oh Palm tree green,
What sorrow have you seen?
What noble one is dead,
That you your branches shed?
He