“Oh, sir,” he said, “the Kawar is my friend. If it is my friend’s letter it is my letter. If it is my letter it is my friend’s letter. Arabs make like that, sir. I am Elias Awad, cook to the British missionary and friend to the dentist. Very nice man, but gone to Acre. But Kawar family live close here. Please, you, sir, come with me.”
Ten minutes later I had been welcomed by the family Kawar like a long-lost friend. Their dwelling showed them to be people of Nazarene wealth and importance. The father, keeper of a dry-goods store, had once been sheik, or mayor, of Nazareth, and was a man of most agreeable manners. He spoke only Arabic. His sons ranged from bearded men to a boy of nine. They had been distributed among the different mission schools of the town. Two of them spoke English; a third spoke German; the fourth spoke French, and the fifth Italian; the youngest was already beginning to learn Russian. While I was bombarded with questions in four languages, I found a moment here and there to congratulate myself on my ignorance of the tongue of the Cossacks.
While the evening meal was preparing, the family, a small army of all sizes, went forth to show me the sights. They pointed out Mary’s Well, the workshop of Joseph, and other things that we read of in the Bible.
After supper three of the sons of the family persuaded me to go to a little church on the brow of the valley, although I was very tired. The sermon was preached in Arabic, but I had heard the tunes of the hymns before. The worshipers in the church behaved quite differently from any I had seen. The men, who sat in the front pews, wore fezes in the latest style; while the women, dressed all alike in white gowns, sat silently in the back seats, scarcely daring to breathe. Now and then one of the men kicked off his loose slippers and folded his legs on his seat. And even the most religious among them could not keep from turning to stare at a faranchee who sat bare-headed in church. At the close of the service the ladies hurried home, but not one of the men was missing from the crowd that waited to greet us as we left the church. My companions told them all they knew of me—and more. Among the hearers were two young men, Shukry Nasr and Nehmé Simán, teachers of English in the mission school. Being eager for a chance to practice talking the English language, and touched with the curiosity of the Arab, they would not go until I had promised to be their guest after my stay with the Kawars.
The next day I learned something of the customs and ways of the better-class Arab. Shukry Nasr and Nehmé Simán called early and led me away to visit their friend, Elias, the cook. On the way, if I chanced to want to buy something at the shops we passed, one or the other of my companions insisted on paying for it. “You are our guest, sir,” said Nehmé; “we are very glad to have you for a guest and to talk English. But, even if we did not like, we should take good care of you; for Christ said ‘Thou shalt house the stranger who is within thy gates.’”
“Why,” said the cook, when we began talking about the same subject after reaching the mission, “in the days of my father, for a stranger to pay for a place to live would have been an insult to all. A stranger in town! Why, let my house be his—and mine!—and mine! would have shouted every honorable citizen!”
“But Nazareth is getting bad,” sighed Shukry. “The faranchees who are coming are very proud. They will not eat our food or sleep in our small houses. And so many are coming! So some inns have been built, where they take pay. Very disgraceful.”
“Did you give any policeman a nice whipping?” asked Elias suddenly.
“Eh?” I cried.
“If a faranchee comes to our country,” he explained, “or if we go to live in America and come back, the policeman cannot arrest.”