"THE LOWEST, DARKEST DOOR"
The door of our promised abode looks like the outlet of a sewer or the entrance to a pig-sty. And Haj, who has buoyed up our hopes with descriptions of the palace we were soon to occupy in Fez, receives reproachful glances. We fear his "palaces" no more deserve their name than did his "forests" and his "lakes" and "rivers," for to him a clump of half a dozen trees was a "forêt magnifique!" a muddy pool "un lac superbe," and a slimy streamlet, "une rivière claire et belle." And now his "palais splendide" bids fair to be—a dirty prison.
BETWEEN SILENT GARDENS
But the arrival of our pack-mules leaves us no time for reproaches or complaints. The caravan completely blocks the circulation of the neighborhood. The pack-mules, too broadly loaded, get stuck fast in the narrow street, and we are compelled to back them out and discharge the cargoes at a neighboring street-intersection. Our folding beds and chairs, our gaily-colored rugs and cushions, our kitchen outfit, and our photographic kit are heaped up in the public thoroughfare, pending the disappearance of the animals. But happily, owing to the blockade, there are no passers-by; else the major portion of our goods might also disappear. A sound of rushing water fills the air, for one of the rapid canals that irrigate the gardens and turn the flour-mills of Fez, here flows beneath the street. It makes a music very grateful to the ears of those who are new come from the torrid prairies of the provinces. Truly, it will be pleasant to rest for a few days and listen to that music, no matter how distasteful our abode may prove to be. Let us, then, with resignation crawl through our dingy door and make ourselves at home.
"DISCHARGING CARGO"
PACK-MULES STUCK FAST BETWEEN THE WALLS