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THE ORIENTA

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and do not allow anybody to torture. them !" and turning to the Ferashes and Shatirs he continued : "Drive away away the accursed everybody, drive away crowd !" Again the whips of the Ferashes and Shatirs hissed in the air, and again the crowd was showered with blows. Shatir Selim ordered the Jews to follow him . The trumpet sounded once more . It was a signal that the Light-bestowing Shah, coming out of his palace, had put his holy foot in the stirrup. The Police Commissioner cast a last glance upon the crowd. His heart throbbed with fear, while he muttered : "Merciful God, let this moment pass without evil !”

WORLD

He knew very well that the persecuted , who were deprived of justice, had often before seized upon such occasions to bring their grievances before the Shah. Woe to the Police Commissioner if the Shah was in a bad humor ! Then he would face either the alternative of being bastinadoed or of spending hundreds , nay thousands , of toumans in peshkesh. The Police Commissioner hoped for the best. He had taken all precautions ; yet he had dreamt bad dreams, and had not had time to have them interpreted . He thought to himself, "Well, it is destiny ; whatever is written shall be fulfilled .' The trumpet sounded for the third time, and from the Pearl Door proceeded the royal retinue.

(To be continued .)

HAST THOU SEEN MY COUNTRY

BY OHANNES OHANNESSIAN

(Translated specially for The Oriental World)

HAST thou, I wonder, looked upon those hills
Where blossoms richly a perennial spring,
Where vineyards buried deep in verdure lie,
Where grapes like jewels ripen as they cling?

Hast thou seen fields and meads where bloom the pink,
The full-blown, radiant lily—and above,
A gracious sun that shines with golden beams,
And a blue sky that always breathes of love?

Hast thou beheld the raging river pass
In snow-white foam between the ancient rocks,
And listened with emotion to the roar
That rises from its billows' angry shocks?

Hast thou beheld the village in the vale,
Set round with glorious gardens like a park,—
A tranquil stream, and golden ears of grain?
There hast thou heard the music of the lark?

Its treasure hast thou seen—the angel-faced
And richly-molded daughter of the South,
With her deep eyes? Like roses are her lips,
Fadeless the smile upon her blooming mouth.

And from her tender cheeks aglow with love—
That maiden in the village of my home—
Oh, tell me, hast thou ever snatched a kiss,
A kiss more sweet than honey in the comb?

Alice Stone Blackwell