Those long rides across the plains, before the Turks were driven back to the hill country, were wonderful. Our horses breasted a green sea of barley, and it was hard to urge them on. Often we drew rein to look at leisure on the earth’s green mantle inwrought with flowers. The plains and the valleys were beautiful. We rode inland along the blue ways of Dawn, rode on till noon, then, after rest, took the sunset trail, when cloud shadows were skimming over the earth. We gazed at the purple ranges and wondered what lay beyond. Under the stars we slept well.
One ride I remember more vividly than all others. We started at sunrise from Belah, rode through a village, and came to a place of little hills whose slopes were bare of trees. Here the Bedouins had pitched their tents, some on the hills and some in the valleys, singly or in groups. When we cantered past men came from the tents to look at us, and children followed after, wailing for backsheesh. The women remained at their tasks. Dogs barked at our horses’ hoofs till their masters cursed them, when they slunk back snarling. We travelled on, with Fara on our left—a great grey bulk against the sky—coming at length to old pasture-lands that War had restored to Nature. Where dust had lain deep, and all plant life had perished under the feet of an army, Nature had won loveliness, healing earth’s wounds with grasses and flowers. It seemed an idle dream that the red tide of war had surged where poppies flamed in the sun and the little speedwell’s eyes of blue shone amid the grass.
Far as our vision ranged the land was bright with flowers—tulips, blue salvias, scarlet pimpernels, asphodels, white daisies, anemones, and lilies swaying on tall stems; hollows brimming with sunshine and pink with cyclamens; acres of red poppies set in emerald; sky-coloured lupines; a green knoll fringed with “pheasant’s eye”; and away to the west a long, brown field flaked with white convolvulus flowers.
For a mile we rode along the wady, seeking vainly an easy descent for the horses. Every cleft was starred with flowers; over the ledges melon plants trailed, making caves of tiny crevices haunted by lizards and spiders. Down a steep track we rode carelessly, letting our eyes dwell on blossoms and giving the horses free rein. We won to the other side safely, then on again through flower-land, with the white tents of the Camel Corps gleaming afar at Shellal. A long, glad ride from dawn till dusk across the plains in spring.
When we carried war to the Judean hills we found wild beauty there; flowers among the terraced hills and olive trees in the valleys. Pink hollyhocks grew on the heights along the Jerusalem road. The valleys were gardens. Gehenna’s goat-tracks, winding among old tombs, were bordered with scarlet poppies.
Wild flowers are Palestine’s glory. No one has named them all. From Dan to Beersheba, among the hills of Moab and Judea, on the wide plain of Esdraelon, on Hermon and Tabor, in Gilead and Bashan; everywhere in Palestine Spring casts down her kindling buds. We have seen them all in our long campaign, and out of the shining company have chosen two for remembrance: the little red poppy (symbol of sleep), and the lily that grows by the sea.
CHARLES BARRETT.
Farming in Arcady
Up in fanatical, uncorrupted old Hebron, where, happily, the cheap tourists are afraid to venture, you see the rude but expert craftsman making the plough. Seated in his gloomy little recess, hewn out of the stone of the hillside, he works swiftly with toes and fingers. Seizing a rough bent branch of an olive tree, he stands it up and grasps the lower end firmly with his deft and supple toes. The pieces fly. Slashing and turning, he lops the smaller limbs, hacks it here and prunes it there, and, in a few minutes, flings it aside complete, except for the steel tip which plays the part of the share.