What Christmas Day, with its toys and sweets and merry-making, is to the Christian child, the Moslem Feast Day, at the close of the Ramadhan Fast, is to the little men and women of Arabia. At that time every child must have a new gown of some bright color. On that gay day, in the bazaar, are sold delicious sweetmeats made only on this one occasion in the whole year. Every one is happy, for the weary month of fasting is at an end. Friend meets friend with the greeting, “May your feast be blessed,” and is answered, “May your day be happy.”
Out on the edge of the town, where the houses end and the desert begins, some enterprising Arab, who has “seen Bombay,” has constructed the crudest and most dangerous of Ferris Wheels, and a merry-go-round to match. Here the youthful inhabitants congregate, with their precious coppers, eager for a ride on these wonderful machines. There are big boys and little boys and middle-sized boys. There are little girls with their faces uncovered, and a few older ones with their faces veiled, but most of the larger girls must stay at home, as it would be a shame for them to appear in public. There are the proud sons of the rich Arab merchants, and the children of the wild Bedouins. What better opportunity could one have to study the rising generation?
If a Westerner, wearing a hat, passes through the crowd, he is immediately followed by a mob of impudent, mischievous boys, calling out in Arabic:
“The English, the English! They don’t pray! Even the chickens Are better than they!”
The Moslems say that the chickens are praying when they raise their heads before swallowing water. (Letter from E. T. Calverley.)
[Illustration: THE MERRY-GO-ROUND AT AN ARAB FAIR]
We have 110 girls in school this term, over half of them boarders, and they are so gentle and tractable it is a pleasure to work with them. It is pitiful to see how little they know about playing. Their greatest pleasure is watching us play tennis. A few evenings ago I heard an unusual noise under my window, and, looking out, saw a towel tied across the walk between the hedges. On either side of this stood a girl with a flat stick in her hand, and they were knocking across the towel a bundle of rags which they had tied up in some semblance of a ball. Later we took them out, and let each one have a few minute’s real play with real racquets and balls, and, when I put the racquet in a girl’s hand, she would gasp, as if to say, “Can this be really true, or am I dreaming?” (Miss Lucy Starling in _Foreign Post_, May, 1910.)