But the boy's father replied, "Not to-day, Osman, not to-day."
Some queerly wrought swords now caught the boy's eye. They were made of the finest steel, and the handles were richly ornamented.
"How I wish I could have one of those for my very own, papa. Mayn't I please have one?"
"When you are a young man, Osman, we will look for the most elegant sword to be bought. But not now, my child."
Osman forgot his longing for a sword when he stood in front of a stand where perfumes were sold.
"We will buy some of this attar of roses. It will please your mother, and you may give it to her," said the father.
The Turks are fond of delicate perfumes, and there is none they like better than attar of roses, which is largely made in Turkey, and sent from there to other countries.
"Why does it cost so much?" asked Osman, as his father handed a gold coin to the shopkeeper.
"It is because only a few drops can be obtained from hundreds and hundreds of the flowers. Next year, you shall take a journey with me, Osman. I am going to the part of our country where the roses are raised for this purpose. It is a beautiful sight,—the fields thickly dotted with the sweet-smelling blossoms. You shall then see how the people get fragrant perfume from the flowers."
"I'm getting so hungry, papa. Can't we get some lunch? That cheese makes my mouth water."