By half-past six we were under way, and all the Syrian world seemed to
be under way also. The road was filled with mule trains and long
processions of camels. This reminds me that we have been trying for some
time to think what a camel looks like, and now we have made it out. When
he is down on all his knees, flat on his breast to receive his load, he
looks something like a goose, swimming; and when he is upright he looks
like an ostrich with an extra set of legs. Camels are not beautiful, and
their long under lip gives them an exceedingly “gallus” expression. They
have immense flat, forked cushions of feet, that make a track in the
dust like a pie with a slice cut out of it. They are not particular
about their diet. They would eat a tombstone if they could bite it. A
thistle grows about here which has needles on it that would pierce
through leather, I think; if one touches you, you can find relief in
nothing but profanity. The camels eat these. They show by their actions
that they enjoy them. I suppose it would be a real treat to a camel to
have a keg of nails for supper.