The first time the “Doubter” saw one of these Syrian scrapers, he asked what it was. When we told him it was a plough, he said he knew better, and we needn’t try to “play it on him.” Then we thought it might be a horse-rake or a wheel-barrow, possibly a brake to attach to a fiery saddle-horse to keep him from descending a hill too fast.
Then we concluded it might be a pillow or a tooth-pick, and finally a part of the equipment of a lunatic asylum. The “Doubter” at length concluded it was a weapon of warfare, and with this wise conclusion he dropped the subject.
Our forenoon’s ride from this camp is a dreary one. We have five hours of it, or nearly that period, in a wild country overlooking the valley of the Jordan on the left, and having no attractions of its own. It is a scene of desolation. There were no trees—scarcely is there any vegetation, and the only inhabitants are people who live somewhere else. The hot, dry landscape is unforbidding in every feature, and only the historic character of the country rewards us for our trouble.
We come to a wretched Khan, which is said to contain the pit into which Joseph was thrown before he was sold by his brethren. The authenticity of the story rests only upon tradition, and there are two or three other places in the country which claim to be the real, original, Joseph’s pit. They show us the hole, which is certainly capable of containing a man. The “Doubter” does not believe it is the real pit, because he cannot see the footprints of the fellows that flung their brother in. Some one tells the story of the New York boot-black, who was induced one day to go to Sunday school. The teacher told the story of Joseph and asked:
“What did Joseph’s brethren put him in the pit for?”
“I know,” said the gamin, with a confident air.
“Then tell us.”