The high winds have begun with a vengeance and a great bore they are.
I went a few days ago out to Medarnoot, and lunched in Mustapha's tent,
among his bean harvest. I was immensely amused by the man who went with
me on to Medarnoot, one Sheriff, formerly an illustrious robber, now a
watchman and very honest man. He rode a donkey, about the size of
Stirling's wee pony, and I laughed, and said, 'The man should carry the
ass.' No sooner said than done, Sheriff dismounted, or rather let his
beast down from between his legs, shouldered the donkey, and ran on. His
way of keeping awake is original; the nights are still cold, so he takes
off all his clothes, rolls them up and lays them under his head, and the
cold keeps him quite lively. I never saw so powerful, active and healthy
an animal. He was full of stories how he had had 1,000 stripes of the
courbash on his feet and 500 on his loins at one go. 'Why?' I asked.
'Why, I stuck a knife into a cawass who ordered me to carry water-melons;
I said I was not his donkey; he called me worse: my blood got up, and
so!--and the Pasha to whom the cawass belonged beat me. Oh, it was all
right, and I did not say "ach" once, did I?' (addressing another). He
clearly bore no malice, as he felt no shame. He has a grand romance
about a city two days' journey from here, in the desert, which no one
finds but by chance, after losing his way; and where the ground is
strewed with valuable _anteekehs_ (antiquities). I laughed, and said,
'Your father would have seen gold and jewels.' 'True,' said he, 'when I
was young, men spit on a statue or the like, when they turned it up in
digging, and now it is a fortune to find one.'