TOM FAIRWEATHER GOES TO BASSORAH, THE HOME OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR.

BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY.

Tom awoke late one morning, to his disappointment, because the night before his father had told him that the next day they would anchor off the Shat-el-Arab River. He sprang on deck eagerly. "Land! Land!" had an ever-fresh fascination for him.

But where was the land? He gazed about him in surprise. The ship was anchored, by all the signs, but anchored apparently in mid-ocean. Directly ahead of them, however, was a black buoy, which, as Tom knew, was not an ordinary feature of mid-ocean scenery.

Tom pointed out this buoy to his father. "What a queer place for a buoy, father!"

"Not at all. It is put there to mark the middle of the river channel. But I see what you mean. You don't realize that is the mouth of a river. Water, water everywhere, and no land in view, eh? Nevertheless this is the Shat-el-Arab River, which we now propose to ascend. Here comes the pilot."

Do you remember, Young People, that the Shat-el-Arab is at the head of the Persian Gulf? Tom realized this distinctly, as they had been steaming up this Gulf for the past week. But could that be indeed a river-mouth?

It was not until they were under way, and had been running along for an hour, that the river narrowed sufficiently for its banks to become visible. At this point it might fairly be termed a magnificent river, with a depth of from thirty to forty feet, whereas at its bar, off which they had first anchored, there was but eleven or twelve feet of water. Yes, a splendid river all the way along its splendid course of a hundred and fifty miles, to the place where the Euphrates and Tigris mingle their floods with its own.

But Tom's ship stops short of this point, at Bassorah, with which city Tom had most vivid associations, for was it not from here that Sindbad the Sailor had set forth on his wonderful voyages?

It was late in the afternoon when they neared the shore, but not too late to distinctly note the character of the place. It was very much better built, and with more of an air of civilization about it, than other Eastern towns Tom had seen lately. The buildings were, some of them, of brick, with glass windows facing the outer world. In short, Bassorah gave evidence on its face of being a prosperous city.

"It is a great grain dépôt," one of the officers said to another. "Those high buildings are grain warehouses."

"Yes, and they are almost always well stocked with grain," Captain Fairweather remarked. "A perpetual contest is going on between the grain merchants and the rats in consequence. The warehouses are in a constant state of siege by the rats trying to get in. Every now and then the rats win the day. They undermine the foundations, and over goes a warehouse."

"How I wish they'd do it while we are here!" cried Tom, fervently.

"Perhaps they may," returned Tom's especial Lieutenant, in an encouraging tone.

The next morning Captain Fairweather made up a party, of which Tom was one, to visit the shore. He pulled to the creek leading to the town, and then embarked in a long narrow native boat. Tom inspected it curiously when he had taken his seat.

"They call this boat a bellem," said his father. "It is hewn out of a tree. Something like canoe-riding, isn't it?"

Two lithe, active Arabs shoved the bellem forward with long bamboos, which they thrust against the bottom or the banks of the creek—or perhaps I might better say canal.

When they left the bellem, one of the boatmen went with them as a guide through the town, and first of all through the bazars.

The bazars were well-built structures, vaulted over with brick. But they were dismally dark, being lighted only by very small windows at the top. A large trade in grain was in progress. They saw thousands of tons of wheat in open spaces, the heaps being covered over with mats.

"Do they only trade in grain here?" Tom asked.

"No, but the season for the grain trade comes first; then comes the wool trade, and later on the trade in dates. First one thing and then another."

As they walked out, Mr. Jollytarre said to the guide: "What dirty streets! Do you ever sweep them?"

"When the Pasha he come," replied the boatman.

"How they do smell!" said Tom, sniffing the air.

"And they will go on smelling," said the Captain, "until some fine day the plague comes and makes a clean sweep of the town. The only clean sweep it ever gets, some one has said."

"The plague!" cried Tom, in horror.

"Yes, the plague. All these filthy Oriental towns are scourged by it every now and then; Bassorah has had its share in the visitation. A long time ago Bassorah had a large population—as high as 800,000, they say, but that is an Oriental way of saying it was very populous. But pestilence, and war, and capture by the Persians, and recapture by the Imam of Muscat for the Sultan, have reduced it to very modest proportions indeed. The Turks founded it, to begin with. One of their early Caliphs gave it the first start 'way back—let me see—in the seventh century."

"Six hundred a.d.," put in Tom.

"Yes; the Turks wanted to keep the way open for trade to the Gulf. These Turks generally know what they are about. But of course the best business men in Bassorah are the Jews."

Here a curious coincidence occurred. A procession slowly approached, coming down the narrow street.

"Jew funeral," said the Arab boatman.

The officers and our Tom gave way, crowding themselves against the houses, as the procession advanced. In front of them it halted. The corpse about to be buried lay in an open coffin placed on a bier hung with black. The persons comprising the procession had been chanting doleful funeral songs, but when they halted they ceased singing, and instead repeated in a mournful monotone funeral prayers as they all marched around the coffin. On the corpse was placed an urn, and as each person passed it he threw into it a piece of money. Seven halts were made, the routine being the same in each instance. At the final one the priest who was conducting the ceremonies uplifted the urn and said, in solemn tones: "We know that no one in the world is free from the sin Sera Lebathalah. We therefore give to thee this money, in order that thou mayst let his body and his soul rest in peace. In the name of the Eternal and His Holy Word, and with the consent of the members of the congregation here present, we lay upon thee the Anathema, which shall compel thee to flee into wild and solitary regions, where thou canst no more persecute any one."

As a matter of course Tom was completely mystified. The Lieutenant had been studying his guide-book. "It's this way, Tom," he explained. "This Jewish community have this curious custom peculiar to themselves. That great long word Sera Lebathalah is the name of a mystic sin or spirit, who is said to be the father of countless dark fiends who torment a man after his death, under the pretext that they are his children and ought to have part of his inheritance. Anathema is a Greek word, signifying that a thing shall be condemned or devoted to destruction. So the friends of the dead buy off this spirit as you have seen, and get rid of him in that way."

"But what becomes of the money?" asked Tom.

"That's more than I can say," said his friend. "But here we are at the grave."

The procession marched solemnly around the grave, and having placed the body in it returned to the town.

Tom and the Lieutenant had quite a walk to take before they again fell in with their companions. They discovered that the next feature on the programme was a further pull up the canal, in accordance with which arrangement they again embarked in the bellem. The canal was full of other boats, which passed them going and coming, the boatmen singing Arab ditties. Great loads of grain came down the stream.

"A good deal of that grain," said the Captain, "goes to Jeddah, and is sold to the pilgrims arriving at that port for Mecca."

In places remote from the Shat-el-Arab or the Tigris it is difficult and expensive to find means of transportation, so a large quantity of grain is used for fuel, and some rots away, or is consumed by rats in the granaries.

"Look at that," cried Mr. Jollytarre, pointing toward a warehouse close to the river-bank, tottering to its fall, as though an earthquake had suddenly overtaken it. "The rats have been having a fine time there."

As he spoke, the building he had pointed out fell with a loud crash.

"Pull ashore," cried the Captain. "We must see what all this means. Jollytarre, you must be dreaming. Rats, indeed!" Hastily running ashore, they came up against a sedate, imperturbable Turkish official, who re-assured them: "It is only one of the government grain stores that has fallen. It often happens. The rats undermine the walls to get at the grain, and from time to time a building gives way."

"Extraordinary!" cried Tom's father. "Well, I don't see that we can do anything here." So they re-embarked.

"These embankments are very well built," remarked some one, when they were again moving up the creek.

The boatman told them they were built by Nassir, a powerful Sheik; that he made a general levy of laborers for the purpose, without pay, although, to be sure, the villages around were compelled to provide food. The laborers made a strike for regular pay, whereupon Nassir built a few of the refractory men into the embankment, and declared he would construct it all of the bodies of the strikers if they did not at once go on with their work. There the strike ended. "As well it might, with such an employer," said the Captain. "And now," he added, "we'll turn around, for if you propose to start for Bagdad to-morrow, Tom, you'd better have a rest."