their few remaining sheep. Then the Turks would return and accuse them of
having given us information, and carry off some hostages or possibly beat
a couple of them for having received us, although goodness knows they had
little enough choice in the matter. There was one old sheik with whom I
used often to sit and gossip while an attendant was roasting the berries
for our coffee over the near-by fire. He was ever asking why we couldn't
make an advance and put his village safely behind our lines, so that the
children could grow fat and the herds graze unharmed. In this country
Kurdish and Turkish were spoken as frequently as Arabic, and many of the
names of places were Turkish--such as Kara Tepe, which means Black
Mountain, and Kizil Robat, the Tomb of the Maidens. My spelling of these
names differs from that found on many maps. It would be a great
convenience if some common method could be agreed upon. At present the
map-makers conform only in a unanimous desire to each use a different
transliteration.

Kizil Robat is an attractive town. I spent some pleasant mornings
wandering about it with the mayor, Jameel Bey, a fine-looking Kurdish
chieftain of the Jaf tribe. He owned a lovely garden with date-palms,
oranges, pomegranates, and figs. Tattered Kurds were working on the
irrigation ditches, and a heap of rags lying below the wall in the sun
changed itself into a small boy, just as I was about to step on it.
Jameel's son was as white, with as rosy cheeks, as any American baby.

Harry Bowen, brother-in-law of General Cobbe, was the political officer
in charge of Kizil Robat. He spoke excellent Arabic and was much respected
by the natives. His house was an oasis in which I could always look
forward to a pleasant talk, an excellent native dinner, and some
interesting book to carry off. Although the town was small, there were
three good Turkish baths. One of them belonged to Jameel Bey, but, judging