The Challis messenger. (Challis, Idaho) 1912-current, 1924-01-02

zaars, and gayly colored saddles and
gaudy velvet caps, edged with glossy
fur, light up the scene.
The Bokhara Moslems are cere-
monialists to the tips of their fingers.
They have shifty eyes, intellectual
faces and indolent bodies. Many Of
them are fat and greasy. One will
see more fat men among the worship
ers at Bokhara than he will in weeks
of travel in Georgia or among the
TurkomanS.
But If one would really know the
charm of Bokhara and its Oriental
spell, he must not alone thread the
murky baZaars, where the copper
workers fires cast fantastic shadows
on the tiny shop faces opposite, or sit
at the busy braziers eating spitted
mutton with a loaf of nnleavened
bread as table and fork, or satisfy the
thirst of the desert with rosy pome-
granates, luscious apples or aromatic
muskmelons from Chardjui, with al
monds and raisins to exc out his ORR
entail meal.
Let him seat himself beside one OF
the picturesque, but stagnant, pools.
whence Bokhara derives its water,
while the shades Of evening silently
settle about the quiet city. The emir
tried to protect this Oriental spell by
forbidding a hotel within its gates.
But the gates will not be shut for
some time yet, so take time now in
this most Oriental of cities to feel a
little of the philosophy that takes
pride in the past and thinks not Of
the morrow.
Pictures by the Pools.
Three yelled women come down to
the waters edge, their shrouded forms
reflected in somber tints from the af-
terglow which leaves its rosy blush in
the fringe of sky behind us. Now
from behind one heavy veil there
energies a snow-white arm which dots
with touch of light the watery
mirror of the quiet pool. In and out
fits that firm, slender arm with its
heavy gold bracelet until she turns to
her companions and they all climb the
slippery steps and fade away into the
shadows of the rooted bazaar.
Following them comes the water
bearer with his flabby water skin,
which he slowly fills through the neck
from a leathern bucket until it be-
comes bloated and full-bodied as some
huge amphibian. Some of the water
splashes back into the dark pool in a
silvery stream edged in pearls. And
the music of its falling merges with
the musical street cry Of the passing
peddler of sweets, who Is trying to
dispose of the rest of his tiny stock
before night settles down.
Here at last is the East. Not Da-
mascus, with it's tourist hotels and
shiny victorias; not Jerusalem, its
ancient wall rent by the kaiser's gate
and its glaring clock tower; not Cairo,
with street cars changing by and evil
minded touts logging ones footsteps;
not even Constantinople or Delhi or
the lovely but lifeless dream in marble
at Agra can quite match the charm Of
old-world Bokhara, dusty and tumble
down, with its scared face toward the
glorious past, when Merry was queen
of the East and Bokhara was her
rival.
Then, as night really falls, one
hastens through the deserted bazaars.
barred and covered on both sides,
where infreQuent and dim electric
lights can't quite spoil the fanciful eff
feet. past great khans in whose court
yards solemn, thoughtful camels pom
der over problems Of their own with
supreme lack of concern for the rough
stones that bruise knees once accus-
toned to soft sand beneath the stars.
And as one energies from the dilapi-
dated old walls of this dusty mud
fiowerpot muezzin up near the
scraggly stork's nest that tops the
minaret sweetly intones the call to
prayer. In the dusty road string Of
tawny camels, grotesque In their ugli-
ness, but picturesque hulks against
The lsaden sky, plod silently by on
padded feet which sink deep into thu
AsxAk -