SYRIA, THE LAND OF LEBANON
us, where the older lady gave us a ridiculously large lunch and a pleasant invitation to "call again the next time you are passing!" The younger—she was very young—pretended to weep copiously at our departure, and wrung bucketfuls of imaginary tears out of her handkerchief. Then the two cheery figures went back up the hill to their long, lonely winter of exile.
On the last Sunday of the Old Year the air was just crisp enough to make walking an exhilarating delight. It was one of the days, not infrequent in the rainy season, when the clouds draw away for a time, while earth and sky, cleansed and refreshed by the recent showers, shine with the refulgence of the rarest mornings of our Western springtime.
As we went out of the old city of Homs, the clearness of the atmosphere was like transparency made visible. The horizon was as clean-cut as that of the ocean. Off to the west were the heights inhabited by the cruel and fanatical Nusairiyeh; straight in front of us to the south was the "Entering In of Hamath," lying low and narrow between Anti-Lebanon on our left and the snow-clad summits of highest Lebanon on our right; while to the east the great wheat-fields of the "Land of Homs" rolled away over the horizon to the unseen desert. Our goal, the little village of Feruzi, shone so white and distinct that it was hard to realize that it was over an hour's journey away.
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