With the brief gladness of the Palms,
that tower and sway o'er seething plain,
Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade,
and welling spring, and rushing rain;
'Tis their's to pass with joy and hope,
whose souls shall ever thrill and fill
Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,--
visions of Allah's Holy Hill.

_The Kasidah._


We travel slowly, for the Maalem "father" of the pack-mules--guide,
philosopher, and trusted companion--says that haste kills strong men, and
often repeats a Moorish proverb which tells us that walking is better than
running, and that of all things sitting still is best. If Salam and I,
reaching a piece of level sward by the side of some orchard or arable land
when the heat of the day has passed, venture to indulge in a brisk canter,
the Maalem's face grows black as his eyes.

"Have a care," he said to me one evening, "for this place is peopled by
djinoon, and if they are disturbed they will at least kill the horses and
mules, and leave us to every robber among the hills." Doubtless the
Maalem prophesied worse things than this, but I have no Arabic worth
mention, and Salam, who acts as interpreter, possesses a very fair amount
of tact. I own to a vulgar curiosity that urges me to see a djin if I can,
so, after this warning, Salam and I go cantering every late afternoon when
the Enemy, as some Moors call the sun, is moving down towards the west,
and the air gets its first faint touch of evening cool. Fortunately or