the verge of womanhood.

Look at that girl in front of us, stooping over the stall of a vendor
of what some one has dubbed "sticky nastinesses," her háïk lightly
thrown back; her bent form and the tiny hand protruding at her side
show that she is not alone, her little baby brother proving almost
as much as she can carry. Her teeth are pearly white; her hair and
eyebrows are jet black; her nut-brown cheeks bear a pleasant smile,
and as she stretches out one hand to give the "confectioner" a few
coppers, with the other clutching at her escaping garment, and moves
on amongst the crowd, we come to the conclusion that if not fair, she
is at least comely.

The country women seated on the ground with their wares form a nucleus
for a dense crowd. They have carried in upon their backs heavy loads
of grass for provender, or firewood and charcoal which they sell in
wholesale quantities to the smaller shopkeepers, who purchase from
other countryfolk donkey loads of ripe melons and luscious black figs.

There is a glorious inconsequence in the arrangement of the wares.
Here you may see a pile of women's garments exposed for sale, and not
far away are sweet-sellers with honey-cakes and other unattractive
but toothsome delicacies. If you can catch a glimpse of the native
brass-workers busily beating out artistic designs upon trays of
different sizes and shapes, do not fail to seize the opportunity
of watching them. You may form one in the ring gathered round the
snake-charmer, or join the circle which listens open-mouthed and with
breathless attention to that story-teller, who breaks off at a most
critical juncture in his narrative to shake his tambourine, declaring
that so close-fisted an audience does not deserve to hear another