Anybody would think from his actions that the sanctimonious old man-ikin (five feet three) had made the pilgrimage to Mecca a dozen times, whereas he has evidently not even earned the privilege of wearing a green turban; he has neither been to Mecca himself during his whole unprofitable life nor sent a substitute, and he now thinks of gaining a nice numerous harem, and a walled-in garden, with trees and fountains, cucumbers and carpooses, in the land of the hara fjhuz kiz, by cultivating the spirit of fanaticism at the eleventh hour.

I feel too independent this morning to sacrifice any of the wellnigh invisible remnant of dignity remaining from the respectable quantity with which I started into Asia, for I still have a couple of the wheaten " quoits" I brought from Yuzgat; so, leaving the ancient Mussulman to his meditations, I push on over the hills, when, coming to a spring, I eat my frugal breakfast, soaking the unbiteable "quoits" in the water.

After getting beyond this hilly region, I emerge upon a level plateau of considerable extent, across which very fair wheeling is found; but before noon the inevitable mountains present themselves again, and some of the acclivities are trundleable only by repeating the stair-climbing process of the Kara Su Pass.

Necessity forces me to seek dinner at a village where abject poverty, beyond anything hitherto encountered, seems to exist. A decently large fig-leaf, without anything else, would be eminently preferable to the tattered remnants hanging about these people, and among the smaller children puris naturalis is the rule. It is also quite evident that few of them ever take a bath; as there is plenty of water about them, this doubtless comes of the pure contrariness of human nature in the absence of social obligations. Their religion teaches these people that they ought to bathe every day; consequently, they never bathe at all.

There is a small threshing-floor handy, and, taking pity on their wretched condition, I hesitate not to "drive dull care away" from them for a few minutes, by giving them an exhibition; not that there is any "dull care" among them, though, after all; for, in spite of desperate poverty, they know more contentment than the well-fed, respectably-dressed mechanic of the Western World. It is, however, the contentment born of not realizing their own condition, the bliss that comes of ignorance. They search the entire village for eatables, but nothing is readily obtainable but bread. A few gaunt, angular fowls are scratching about, but they have a beruffled, disreputable appearance, as though their lives had been a continuous struggle against being caught and devoured; moreover, I don't care to wait around three hours on purpose to pass judgment on these people's cooking. Eggs there are none; they are devoured, I fancy, almost before they are laid.

Finally, while making the best of bread and water, which is hardly made more palatable by the appearance of the people watching me feed - a woman in an airy, fairy costume, that is little better than no costume at all, comes forward, and contributes a small bowl of yaort; but, unfortuntaely, this is old yaort, yaort that is in the sere and yellow stage of its usefulness as human food; and although these people doubtless consume it thus, I prefer to wait until something more acceptable and less odoriferous turns up. I miss the genial hospitality of the gentle Koords to-day. Instead of heaping plates of pillau, and bowls of wholesome new yaort, fickle fortune brings me nothing but an exclusive diet of bread and water.

My road, this afternoon, is a tortuous donkey-trail, intersecting ravines with well-nigh perpendicular sides, and rocky ridges, covered with a stunted growth of cedar and scrub-oak. The higher mountains round about are heavily timbered with pine and cedar. A large forest on a mountain-slope is on fire, and I pass a camp of people who have been driven out of their permanent abode by the flames. Fortunately, they have saved everything except their naked houses and their grain. They can easily build new houses, and their neighbors will give or lend them sufficient grain to tide them over till another harvest.

Toward sundown the hilly country terminates, and I descend into a broad cultivated valley, through which is a very good wagon-road; and I have the additional satisfaction of learning that it will so continue clear into Sivas, a wagon-road having been made from Sivas into this forest to enable the people to haul wood and building-timber on their arabas. Arriving at a good-sized and comparatively well-to-do Mussulman village, I obtain an ample supper of eggs and pillau, and, after binning over and over again until the most unconscionable Turk among them all can bring himself to importune me no more, I obtain a little peace.

Supper for two, together with the tough hill-climbing to-day, and insufficient sleep last night, produces its natural effect; I quietly doze off to sleep while sitting on the divan of a small khan, which might very appropriately be called an open shed. Soon I am awakened; they want me to accommodate them by binning once more before they retire for the night. As the moon is shining brightly, I offer no objections, knowing that to grant the request will be the quickest way to get rid of their worry. They then provide me with quilts, and I spend the night in the khan alone. I am soon asleep, but one habitually sleeps lightly under these strange and ever-varying conditions, and several times I am awakened by dogs invading the khan and sniffing - about my couch.

My daily experience among these people is teaching me the commendable habit of rising with the lark; not that I am an enthusiastic student, or even a willing one - be it observed that few people are - but it is a case of either turning out and sneaking off before the inhabitants are astir, or to be worried from one's waking moments to the departure from the village, and of the two evils one comes finally to prefer the early rising. One can always obtain something to eat before starting by waiting till an hour after sunrise, but I have had quite enough of these people's importunities to make breakfasting with them a secondary consideration, and so pull out at early daylight. The road is exceptionally good, but an east wind rises with the sun and quickly develops into a stiff breeze that renders riding against it anything but child's play; no rose is to be expected without a thorn, nevertheless it is rather aggravating to have the good road and the howling head-wind happen together, especially in traversing a country where good roads are the exception instead of the rule.

About eight o'clock I reach a village situated at the entrance to a rocky defile, with a babbling brook dancing through the space between its two divisions. Upon inquiring for refreshments, a man immediately orders his wife to bring me pillau. For some reason or other - perhaps the poor woman has none prepared; who knows? - the woman, instead of obeying the command like a "guid wifey," enters upon a wordy demurrer, whereupon her husband borrows a hoe-handle from a bystander and advances to chastise her for daring to thus hesitate about obeying his orders; the woman retreats precipitately into the house, heaping Turkish epithets on her devoted husband's head.

This woman is evidently a regular termagant, or she would never have used such violent language to her husband in the presence of a stranger and the whole village; some day, if she doesn't be more reasonable, her husband, instead of satisfying his outraged feelings by chastising her with a hoe-handle, will, in a moment of passion, bid her begone from his house, which in Turkish law constitutes a legal separation; if the command be given in the presence of a competent witness it is irrevocable. Seeing me thus placed, as it were, in an embarrassing situation, another woman - dear, thoughtful creature! - fetches me enough wheat piilau to feed a mule, and a nice bowl of yaort, off which I make a substantial breakfast.

Near by where I am eating are five industrious maidens, preparing cracked or broken wheat by a novel and interesting process, that has hitherto failed to come under my observation; perhaps it is peculiar to the Sivas vilayet, which I have now entered. A large rock is hollowed out like a shallow druggist's mortar; wheat is put in, and several girls (sometimes as many as eight, I am told by the American missionaries at Sivas) gather in a circle about it, and pound the wheat with light, long-headed mauls or beetles, striking in regular succession, as the reader has probably seen a gang of circus roustabouts driving tent-pins. When I first saw circus tent-pins driven in this manner, a few years ago, I remember hearing on-lookers remarking it as quite novel and wonderful how so many could be striking the same peg without their swinging sledges coming into collision; but that very same performance has been practised by the maidens hereabout, it seems, from time immemorial- another proof that there is nothing new under the sun. Ten miles of good riding, and I wheel into the considerable town of Yennikhan, a place sufficiently important to maintain a public coffee-khan and several small shops. Here I take aboard a pocketful of fine large pears, and after wheeling a couple of miles to a secluded spot, halt for the purpose of shifting the pears from my pocket to where they will be better appreciated.

Ere I have finished the second pear, a gentle goatherd, who from an adjacent hill observed me alight, appears upon the scene and waits around, with the laudable intention of further enlightening his mind when I remount. He is carrying a musical instrument something akin to a flute; it is a mere hollow tube with the customary finger-holes, but it is blown at the end; having neither reed nor mouth-piece of any description, it requires a peculiar sidewise application of the lips, and is not to be blown readily by a novice. When properly played, it produces soft, melodious music that, to say nothing else, must exert a gentle soothing influence on the wild, turbulent souls of a herd of goats. The goatherd offers me a cake of ekmek out of his wallet, as a sort of a I peace - offering, but thanks to a generous breakfast, music hath more charms at present than dry ekmek, and handing him a pear, I strike up a bargain by which he is to entertain me with a solo until I am ready to start, when of course he will be amply recompensed by seeing me bin; the bargain is agreed to, and the solo duly played.

East of Yennikhan, the road develops into an excellent macadamized highway, on which I find plenty of genuine amusement by electrifying the natives whom I chance to meet or overtake. Creeping noiselessly up behind an unsuspecting donkey-driver, until quite close, I suddenly reveal my presence. Looking round and observing a strange, unearthly combination, apparently swooping down upon him, the affrighted katir-jee's first impulse is to seek refuge in flight, not infrequently bolting clear off the roadway, before venturing upon taking a second look. Sometimes I simply put on a spurt, and whisk past at a fifteen mile pace.

Looking back, the katir-jee generally seems rooted to the spot with astonishment, and his utter inability to comprehend. These men will have marvellous tales to tell in their respective villages concerning what they saw; unless other bicycles are introduced, the time the "Ingilisiu" went through the country with his wonderful araba will become a red-letter event in the memory of the people along my route through Asia Minor. Crossing the Yeldez Irmak Eiver, on a stone bridge, I follow along the valley of the head-waters of our old acquaintance, the Kizil Irmak, and at three o'clock in the afternoon, roll into Sivas, having wheeled nearly fifty miles to-day, the last forty of which will compare favorably in smoothness, though not in leveluess, with any forty- mile stretch I know of in the United States. Prom Angora I have brought a letter of introduction to Mr. Ernest Weakley, a young Englishman, engaged, together with Mr. Kodigas, a Belgian gentleman, for the Ottoman Government, in collecting the Sivas vilayet's proportion of the Russian indemnity; and I am soon installed in hospitable quarters. Sivas artisans enjoy a certain amount of celebrity among their compatriots of other Asia Minor cities for unusual skilfulness. particularly in making filigree silver work.

Toward evening myself and Mr. Weakley take a stroll through the silversmiths' quarters. The quarters consist of twenty or thirty small wooden shops, surrounding an oblong court; spreading willows and a tiny rivulet running through it give the place a semi-rural appearance. In the little open-front workshops, which might more appropriately be called stalls, Armenian silversmiths are seated cross-legged, some working industriously at their trade, others gossiping and sipping coffee with friends or purchasers.

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Adapted from Thomas Stevens, Around the World on a Bicycle