The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1920-09-17

wash of its surf. It is like Florida in
the wide, white streets of it's German
colony, 1t is like Manitou in it's green
slopes of Mount Carmel. 1t is like the
orient in the narrow, vaulted streets
OF its native quarter, The war has
made 1t the keystone of that vast arch
OF empire, one column of which rests
on South Africa and the other on
India. 1t is the peak of the British
observation-disclosures project.
Leaving Haifa, we skirted the foot
OF Carmel and issued into the broad
plain, with the black skin-tents Of
Bed6uin dotting the fiat green dis
tances and with ID of u.s. all tangled
up like the sultan's signature, in a
carriage built for eight, talking of the
Crusaders and the Camel Corps, and
untangling ourselves internationally to
hang out of the windows with our
kodaks, as the low cone of the Mount
of TRANSPORTATION disengaged itself
from the horizon far ahead. We passed
Afuleh, where the greatest cavalry
maneuver in military history enabled
the Australians to smash the Turkish
rear in September, 1918, and we
squeezed across the car to see where
Nazareth lies just over that hill" We
saw the green plain give way gradual
ly to tumultuous, burnt-up country;
we saw our locomotive rounding sharp
curves ahead Of US, with 'the hedge
hogs running along the footboards
of the train in the free-and-easy, ride
as-you-please manner of the East. We
began winding down into a Scared
valley of yellow buttes, a steep blue
horizon and whiting heat, with dyna-
mited bridge-structures lying shape
less under the new bridges we crossed.
To the accompaniment Of the clicking
of many kodaks, we finally sighted
the twisting blue Of the Jordan. Sigh
ing for watermelon we went down
into the Gehenna of Galilee.
Into Damascus ih the Night.
Night came down over the Hauran;
we lighted a stump of candle in our
crowded carriage and dined on bully
beef, eggs, apricots and a nip from
somebody's flask as a liquer. Some
time in the night, the train moved
slowly through the moonlit streets of
a city of some size, and finally came
to a stop under the electric lights of
a modern train-shed. We reused our
selves and stepped out upon the con-
crete platform of the magnificent new
kanawat station in Damascus. With
the luggage leading, we creaked out
into the moonlight and the chorus of
the bull-frogs along the Barada river.
Damascus is purely Arab. 1t is as
thoroughly of the desert as the Arab |
himself. Once it was greater than
Aleppo, greater even than Bagdad; it |
was the greatest of the great old cara
van ports that lie along the rim of |
the Syrian desert. 1t still faces to- |
ward the desert, and we hat-wearers |
who come up to 1t from salt water,
come in by it's back door. We lodge in !
its Levantine hotels (when we are
able) and we spend our days in
cursing it's Levantine walters and our
nights in cursing its Levantine wines. |
For US, Damascus is old and dusty and |
But to the Arabs who |
rome, through weeks of crossing the |
desert, to alight at last from their
caravans of belled camels before its
East Gate, Damascus offers the mir
acle of its rivers Of running water.
For them, Damascus wears the sacred
green turban of its orchards. For
hem, Damascus is the City of Para
lise.