Plenty of practice in adjusting to European and Asiatic customs, as a lone American among British and Indian troops, which became crucially important for the later Experiment.

WITHIN TWO WEEKS OF GRADUATION A SMALL GROUP OF students from Princeton, Harvard and Michigan pulled away from the Holland-America dock in Hoboken on the ancient Nieuw Amsterdam. Instead of going without navigation lights, she indicated that she was not at war by showing her name in letters of electric lights five feet high.

In the Mediterranean we were on a British ship, and the submarine threat was serious. On each of the three days before we sailed from Marseilles, one ship had been sunk. We could not help having in mind the fact that a torpedo might hit us at any minute. To relieve the tension we made jokes about there being water sports on the main deck just after tea. We were glad to see Suez, and once through the Canal we could forget the submarines.

Mr. Carter, our leader, and an Indian friend prepared us for meeting the people of India, both Indians and British. We practiced pronouncing courteous expressions in Hindustani with its many unusual sounds. Equally unusual were the sounds of British English as we attempted to broaden our flat "A's," giggling with amusement and embarrassment. Carter described the many customs which we would have to change in order to adjust to the British-Indian culture. Although the word "orientation" was not used until about twenty-five years later, Carter, far ahead of the times, gave us exactly that.

I found the unaccustomed sights, sounds and smells of Bombay exciting, and was determined to learn as rapidly as possible. The first day at luncheon, we rejected the European food and ordered an Indian dinner. A huge mound of rice was placed in the center of the table, around which were many bowls of different vegetables with varying degrees of fiery spices. There was no one to show us how to proceed, but I was trying everything. I was not even afraid of the little, white, bone-hard fishes. Taking one in my fingers, I put the whole thing in my mouth and chewed. It tasted exactly like bone meal fertilizer. What I did not know was that a tiny piece of this dried fish mixed well with curry and rice provided a delightful savor.

Shortly after arriving in India, I left the other members of the group of fifteen college students to visit my brother, who was a Presbyterian missionary in the village of Etah, near the city of Allahabad. After a good visit with James, I crossed northwest India to sail from the port of Karachi to Basra at the head of the Persian Gulf. Basra was the base for the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force of the British-Indian Army.

Climbing aboard the ship, S.S. Elephanta I found that my friends had been held up by some army official in Bombay, who disapproved of civilians "on active service." The embarkation officer of Karachi had never met a YMCA secretary. Although my uniform was cut like that of an officer, I did not wear the distinguishing Sam Brown belt nor the rank marks on my shoulders.

The social system of the British-Indian Army divided all human beings into two levels: one was either "an officer and a gentleman" or a "man" with no pretensions to being a gentleman. I was not an officer. I did not qualify for a seat in the dining saloon, and as there were no white soldiers aboard, and since it would have been impossible for me to eat with the Indians, I found myself on the stern deck having my meals in the company of cows and chickens.

Having just graduated from a distinguished university, it had never occurred to me that my social position was not secure; but during the six-day journey, I learned the meaning of "pariah" (an Indian term for outcast), because there was no one with whom I could talk. Although this was rather a rough introduction to living with the British-Indian Army, it did prepare me for the very difficult adjustment which I had to make. Edward Carter had made the importance of adjustment so clear that I was prepared to accept the fact that in the Indian Army I was not a member of the upper class. The numerous reminders of this from the British officers during my first year might have been too much to take had I not been prepared by Carter's wisdom.

After my arrival in Basra, the port of Mesopotamia, I wrote regularly to my mother, and she saved all of my letters so that now I can quote at length.

Basra, September 26, 1916

Dear Mother,

I have been given my work. It consists of a hut in the Flying Corps Park which is used by a rather small number of men at present, only about three hundred. There is also nearby a hospital of eight hundred beds which are generally filled.

It is a convalescent hospital, and for the most part the men are changing rapidly. It is mostly for the sick and not the wounded. Dysentery which is very severe and prevalent out here is the complaint of the majority of the patients.

I live in a hut of bamboo matting, the large recreation on hut being made of the same material. It is fine now, but I don't know how it will be in the winter.

The men in my camp are not the soldier type. They are a fine crowd of the "citizen army" of Great Britain. In our camp the fellow who plays the piano has his degree in music from the University of London and is regularly an organist at home.

The YMCA hut is the only means of recreation that the soldiers have, so it is always filled to overflowing in the evening. We serve them tea, chocolate, "biscuits" and cakes, cigarettes, canned fruit, etc., as their mess is a very cheerless place and the food of the roughest sort. It means a lot to them to be able to obtain these things at low prices. The Flying Corps is one of the few camps where the men stay for a long time, so that I ought to be able to get some constructive work started with them.

Mesopotamia is a most interesting place. The prevailing population is Arab, of which there are many kinds: there are the wild Bedouin from the desert, the almost as wild Marsh Arabs from the huge swamps. Then there are the city Arabs; the shopkeepers and a class of gentlemanly loafers who hang about the coffee houses, of which there are many in the bazaar. In addition, from the mountains of Persia there are tribesmen who act as coolies and can carry huge loads on their backs, such as a trunk or three or four big cases.

The streets of the important bazaars are generally roofed over to keep out the terrific summer sun. Ashar, which is the part of Basra on the river, is cut through with canals, and most of the traveling, as in Venice, is done in long boats like gondolas which are poled by two men.

It is dusty here and still very warm, but soon the rains will come and it will be muddy and terribly cold. I have not suffered from either as yet. We are carefully equipped with all the paraphernalia, such as sun helmets, spine pads, and sun glasses. (The glare is terribly strong! )

Although the humid heat of Basra, the fleas, the smells, the strangeness and the discomfort made many people miserable, I was utterly satisfied with my job. In my October, 1916, letter, I wrote, "The heat does not seem to affect me. I feel full of power."

THE YMCA HUT, MADE OF WOVEN REEDS

IT WAS MY JOB TO MAKE THE TROOPS AS COMFORTABLE AS POSSIBLE

MARSH ARABS, THEIR CANOE SMEARED WITH PITCH LIKE THE ARK

It was my job to make the British troops as comfortable as possible. No Indian troops ever mixed with the British and therefore never entered the hut. Immediately after their unattractive evening meal when they had only hot tea to drink, they would come to the hut and stand patiently in a queue waiting for another cup of that hard-boiled beverage which tasted to me like lye noisomely flavored with glue-like condensed milk. I soon learned that they all believed that hot tea was the best thing to cool one when the temperature soared above one hundred degrees in the shade. At first I was positive that this was not true. But since there was nothing else to drink, and since in that dehydrating climate ten to twelve cups a day were absolutely necessary, I soon found myself drinking freely the revolting liquid. However, since leaving Mesopotamia I have not been able to look a British cup of tea in the face.

In contrast to their own crowded tents with no tables and chairs, the hut provided a place to sit, paper for writing letters, and games of all sorts. In the middle of the hut was a billiard table which was in constant use. The tea bar was at one end, where three or four British Army veterans on loan to the YMCA sold tea and Gold Flake cigarettes, which were equally valued with the "lovely tea." At the other end of the hut there were games of drafts (checkers) for the simpleminded and chess for the intellects.

Filling the long evenings with interesting activities called for imagination since resources were scarce. The weekly program generally supplied a whist drive (progressive old-fashioned whist), a movie, a religious service on Sunday, and sometimes, when a speaker could be found, a lecture on Mesopotamia or India. Failing someone to lead the religious service, I undertook to do it myself, or gave the lecture with the help of a borrowed book, and I soon became an expert on the ancient history of "Mespot," one of the earliest cradles of civilization.

October 14, 1916

Dear Mother,

I am getting to know the men now, and soon I expect to start Bible classes both in the hospital and in the camp. This is really an excellent place for this sort of thing, because some men miss the spiritual influence of their home life and welcome some religious work in which they can share. They do not like their religion handled in a public manner. For instance, a bulletin-board notice of a Bible class would be practically ignored, but in a private talk which many men start themselves, they show their willingness to enter this sort of activity. I have purposely not attempted to start anything before this time, but now after working in the tea bar and library with them and for them, I think I have gained their friendship and respect.

As I write, my reports on "religious work" give the impression that I was much more interested in Bible classes, etc., than I now believe I actually was. Thinking that Mother wanted to hear about such activities, my letters contained more emphasis on this than my achievements justified. I certainly came perilously close to misrepresentation, although not entirely so, because as I wrote the reports I probably believed what I was reporting.

One incident, however, now remembered, shows where I stood. There was a small group of intensely narrow and religious soldiers and sailors belonging to an English sect called "The Plymouth Brethren." Believing me to be of the same stamp, they expected me to get down on my knees and pray with them. This was going too far. I did my best to avoid them; they got the point and did not come back.

October 28, 1916

Last night I attempted my first lecture on the American Colleges, endeavoring to give an idea of the opportunity of the poor man's son for an education. They are not keen on lectures so that I had a small audience, most of the men preferring to sit around the billiard table or over their game of checkers, but in the discussion after the talk, two young cotton workers from Manchester stayed and asked questions about the opportunities in America. One said he did not feel like going back to thirty shillings a week after the war. This entirely made up for the lack of numbers in my audience.

You ought to see my servant Sulieman. He knew absolutely nothing when I got him except how to sew. The cook of the non-commissioned officers' mess, who really does my cooking for me, says he will make a good cook of him if he has him for three months. He is still the willing worker, and whenever I call, he comes at a run. When he sees me coming home, carrying something, he sets off on a sprint and comes bounding up with a half-embarrassed smile to relieve me of my burden.

I am becoming a regular Englishman. You just ought to see me drink tea, eight cups a day-two at chota hazri (little breakfast) at seven o'clock, two at breakfast at ten o'clock, two at tea at two o'clock, and two at supper. I have learned to cherish it even on the hottest day. Of course, there is a reason for this. The water here is not fit to drink unless it is boiled, so when you have tea you are always sure that it has been boiled.

Toast and dates are two of the other regular articles of my diet. I eat dates by the pound, always bathed, of course, in a solution of permanganate of potassium.

There is always something to be done so that when ten o'clock comes around I am quite ready to get into my little cot out under the brilliant stars of the Mesopotamian sky. The nights are so bright that it is nearly possible to read.

Got up at 6:15 and took a cold bath. It is quite cool in the morning, and cold at night. Distributed war gifts at the hospital and interviewed the Major for permission to give a concert. Instructed an orderly on how, in my absence, to run the library which I have catalogued.

I am living on about twenty-eight cents a day and am drawing two dollars. Pretty good, eh what?!! Gave a moving picture show at the hospital to about six hundred men. Soloist did not turn up so I sang.

---

November 15, 1916

We have the evenings completely filled up. On Monday we had a Ping-Pong tournament which was successful, also a camera club meeting. Everyone has gone photography mad. The commanding officer is going to arrange for us to have a good building for a dark room, which the club will fit out. An officer also offered a prize of twenty rupees for the best picture of the country. Tuesday we had an interesting lecture on Mohamet by Rev. A. E. Lee, a Scotsman from Glasgow. Chaplains in the army are called padres. I have two padres filling up two evenings every week with pleasant and beneficial hours.

Last Sunday one of the Indian secretaries spoke. He had an excellent effect upon the men, who come in contact only with the lowest castes of the Indians.

---

December 14, 1916

On both sides of the Shatt-al Arab, irrigated date palms extend back from the river about a mile and beyond that, the desert, table flat as far as the eye can see, a desert not of sand but of the finest alluvial soil built over the ages by the flooding of the Tigris and the Euphrates. Everything one touches, including one's own body, is covered with a layer of dust; and when the wind blows, we eat it and inhale it. if water could be added, this dry delta could become one of the richest gardens of the world.

---

December 27, 1916

Christmas with its full stomach has passed, and today we are feeling quite normal once again. The day was quite a success, and I went to bed Christmas night feeling very good indeed. It came about this way: About a month and a half before Christmas we formed a Christmas Club, every man paying two rupees (Indian coinage is used here). A rupee is equal to thirty-two cents. We had twenty-one geese fattening for a month, which were presented by the officers. Then the Christmas pudding was a gift from several newspapers in England to the troops in Mesopotamia. In addition, we had eight hundred rupees to spend on the dinner.

WINTER QUARTERS, WINTER UNIFORM

It was really a great success. Everything went off smoothly, and the huge shed (hangar) in which we held it was decorated with flags, bunting and Japanese lanterns till it looked most cheerful. Palm branches and red bunting make a good substitute for holly. After dinner some of the fellows gave a farce which they had been practicing for weeks. Woodbridge, another American, and I gave a little song and some American slang talk which made quite a hit. The concert was a success, and I hope it will be the first of a series. The men got all of Christmas Day off and in the afternoon held sports. So you see they had quite a nice day of it and a good break in the monotony of their work.

Last year they were on duty up to noon on Christmas and had no dinner, and few and poor sports. Without bragging, I might say that they probably would have had the same sort of thing this year if we (meaning I) had not been here to suggest the dinner and work it out. It was worth coming out here just to hear the three cheers for "Mr. Watts" that the men gave in response to the Sergeant Major's suggestion just as the party broke up.

Another Christmas thought that has struck me forceably is the fact that Jesus with the humble life that he lived should have made such an impression upon the world. It makes one think that the things which the modern man values most must after all be very artificial and hollow. The war proves that we are going along the wrong track and that it is time for a change of values. Who will bring about the change?

Gradually a small group of men got into the habit of dropping into my hut for sociability, and in the long conversations with them I became acquainted with British life at the level of the lower and lower middle classes. The group was not large, and they did not hesitate to tell me how much they enjoyed my company. There were Bert and Jack and my favorite, "Little Johnny Chrechton," a Scottish tailor who became a close friend. From them I learned about the antagonism between the High Church and Chapel, and since they were all Chapel, they gave me plenty of criticisms of the hollow forms of the established church. It was this group that was referred to in my letters as my "Bible Class."

February 12, 1917

Life out here has its ups and downs just like life anywhere else. The work is satisfying and the responsibility of the job is slowly, but I think surely, making me less shushlich . . . ("disorganized," a Pennsylvania Dutch word which my mother used). I am slowly becoming less scatter-brained and more systematic. It is showing up all over me. My nails are always a little better looking; my clothes neater. I am more sure of myself and most important of all, am exercising more forethought. My fellow secretaries are high-class men. I think there is nothing better for a man than a high standard set by his fellows. And nothing is better to knock off the rough edges than working with men of different countries. We have both English and Scots on the Y staff.

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March 18, 1917

What I wish to make clear is that it is now difficult for me to say just when I will be home, but whenever it is, I want to spend my next year at home.

You will be glad to hear that my Bible Class and Sunday evening service are always increasing in size. My work is going very well indeed, and I like it as much as ever. I will give you the schedule for this week so that you may get an idea of what sort of activities, excluding library, canteen, and athletics, we have:

So you see we keep the men's minds pretty well occupied and help them to forget that they are so far from home and in such a dreary place. As you may have guessed (you seem to know all such things), I used to worry myself sick trying to decide what my business in life was to be. Somehow since I have come out here, this has not worried me the way it did. I have gotten into the habit of letting the future take care of itself and thinking more about the present.

In April, I was moved to Quernah (the reputed Garden of Eden) and in May to Baghdad.

August 1, 1917

This has been the busiest week that I have spent in a long time. It seems scarcely yesterday that I was writing you last week's letter. During the week my new YMCA near Baghdad has been slowly nearing completion.

This is mail day and I am writing during the time reserved for my nap. I generally take about a two-hour siesta every afternoon for the reason that I am getting up regularly these days at four o'clock. So by the time one o'clock comes along I am very ready to stretch out for a good snooze.

Nome of the jobs of the last week have been quite novel for me. This morning I had a working party of fifty Gurkhas, the small sturdy Mongolian mountaineers the best soldiers in the Indian Army. They were building the platform for our stage. We expect to start our program tomorrow night when Dr. Lavy, a missionary physician, will lecture and the General will preside. It is fun to get all these things going when there are lots of people to appreciate them. We will be having lectures, concerts, boxing matches, cinema shows, religious services and Bible classes.

For the inner man, we are selling about thirty gallons of good tea per night and about half that amount of lime juice. We are starting to build a bakery here at the house where I hope we shall be able to turn out about four thousand small cakes a day.

I am getting so enthusiastic about my work because I have so much to do, which I seem to be doing to the satisfaction of all concerned. I may think about staying over when my time comes to go home.

This job calls for a many-sided man as there are all sorts of situations to be dealt with. This, of course, makes it all the more interesting and difficult, but we all try to keep ever before us the fact that our work is, in the beginning and in the end, religious.

It has even been noticed that men who have been in contact with a YMCA are really quite different from those who have nothing of the sort. In the army there are, I feel quite safe to say, no good moral influences and, with the exception of the few extremists, no religious influences. The average soldier, left to himself, becomes pretty bestial, which is only what we can expect. The religious, moral, and intellectual influence of the YMCA keeps men's minds up where they should be according to Christian and civilized ways of thinking. Many men in the army absolutely refuse to have anything to do with anything religious. I feel sure that by interesting them with the more secular of our activities, we have broken down this barrier in more cases than one.

The troops which I had been serving from June to September, when it was too hot for fighting, advanced up the Euphrates River and pushed the Turks back with relatively little opposition. I was then transferred to the long lines of communication that extended from Baghdad into the mountains of Persia as far as the Caspian Sea. My first headquarters was in a camp near the high mountain town of Karind.

September 28, 1918, Karind, Persia

Yesterday I had a very interesting experience. I had been attempting to organize some relief work for the Kurds of the village of Karind, some of whom are miserably poor. Sometimes on these frosty mornings one sees the orphan babies, of whom there are quite a number and who beg around the camp, with nothing but a burlap flour sack to cover themselves. My idea was to collect the waste food, of which there is quite a little, and feed the poorest of the people.

The interpreter was able to get a list of the poorest people in the village. To do this the headman of the village called together a meeting of the notables and I went to talk with them. The headman is the governor of all the district hereabouts and a very powerful fellow. He has a history which sounds more like a medieval tale than a description of a living man. He has the reputation of having murdered his own son and ten other men, at different times, when he found them growing so strong that they became dangerous menaces to his power.

When I walked into the room where they were sitting, I found twenty fine-looking Kurds seated on the floor, which was carpeted with felt. One chair was brought in which was for me. After bringing in tea in the little glasses in which it is always served in Persia, we got to work and without much difficulty arranged that twenty of the poorest orphans and widows of the town should meet in a certain house and would be given the food which I should collect in the camp. In return for the food they would spin wool which some of the women would make into gloves and mufflers to be sold to the troops; and with the profits realized, we would buy clothing. I don't suppose we will swamp the market with gloves; yet, by getting them organized to help one another and to use the food that was being wasted, I think it is likely that we may keep more alive through the winter.

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December 28, 1918, Karind

Well, Christmas is over and in a few days we shall be dating our letters with 1919, which I hope will be the year that will go down in history as establishing peace and progress for the world, such as it has never known before.

We had some snow this week, but it did not lie on the ground for long, for which we are all very happy. We live in little tents, twelve by sixteen feet, which we keep warm in the night with little sheet-iron stoves, and so are not very uncomfortable. I have plenty of warm clothing which I have not started to wear as yet but am keeping till it gets colder. Besides a good raincoat, I have a coat made of sheepskin which is worn wool inwards and, as long as it is dry, is fine and warm. At night I sleep on my camp cot in a canvas sleeping bag well packed with good blankets so that I am feeling fit. The food here is excellent.

As I sit at the door of my little tent in the sun, I am only a few yards from the road along which all the interesting caravans come. All the means of transport that this part of the world can produce come slopping along in the mud. First will come some shivering Arabs with a herd of overloaded donkeys, little black fellows that carry burdens almost as big as themselves, Then, going the other way without any burdens, will be a string of Persian (Bactrian) camels, two-humped and quite different from the one-humped Arabian variety. They are immense creatures whose size is exaggerated by their long, yellow, wooly hair. Those who know say they can tell by the dress of the drivers that they come from Tabriz. They wear round, brimless caps made of sheepskin with the leather outside and only a strip of fur showing around the bottom. Their coats are striped, woolen, loose-fitting robes of a most gorgeous coloring.

Once in a while, four-wheeled wagons drawn by four horses all abreast will lurch by. This goes on both by day and by night, and when the moon is full, making night travel easy, one can hear the bells at any hour. The lead camel or horse carries one with a pretty tinkle while the tailer carries a huge one with a tinny bong making a harmony which once heard will not be forgotten.

---

February 5, 1919

Dear Mother,

Last Sunday as I was just looking over my notes for the last time before going to the service for the Christian Indians and later for the British, a little Kurdish girl came up to the door of my tent and said, "Sahib, bichou?" which means, "Sahib, shall I go away?" She was dressed mostly in rags with a couple of burlap bags for a coat. The night had been bitter cold, so I couldn't chase her away as one usually has to do with beggars. So I put her in a tent next to mine. Rahmat, my Indian servant, went with me to the Indian service. After I came back from the British service, he said sorrowfully, "Sahib, someone has stolen the roast from the cook tent, while I was at the service. So I made stew."

I ate my dinner and then went into the next tent to see what the little girl was doing. She was curled up in a corner with one of her sacks over her. I made her get up, and sure enough, in a sack under her head were the remains of my roast. I got a big box and took her and it into my tent. After she sat by the fire for a while, I put her into the box and covered her up with mail bags.

The next morning I woke with the feeling that someone was looking at me, and sure enough, two bright eyes were watching me over the edge of the box. She was apparently comfortable, though too weak and thin to do anything but sit. She could not even be persuaded to smile. Rahmat and I gave her a bath and washed her head and found it alive with lice; so getting out my trusty scissors, I cut off all her hair, killing the lice between my thumb nails as I went. I gave her a woolen shirt which served her for a dress.

She had beautiful, big, blue eyes, the only thing beautiful in her scratched and weathered face. Her name is Chowkhass which is Kurdish for "beautiful eyes."

Rahmat, from north central India, speaks a language called Urdu (the word means "camp"), which was the Persian language which the Mongol invaders of India brought with them. Rahmat now proudly translated a simple conversation that went something like this:

RAHMAT: Pedar hast? Have you a father?

CHOWMASS: A shake of the head.

RAHMAT : Mawther hast? Have you a mother?

CHOWKHASS: The same shake.

RAHMAT: Brawther hast? Have you a brother?

CHOWKHASS: Once again the same shake.

RAHMAT: Dochter hast? Have you a sister?

CHOWKHASS: Her head went back with finality and she made a clicking sound.

How close to our European languages this Persian language is!!

She seemed content and needed no encouragement to go to sleep in the sun in my big camp chair. I was now racking my brain as to what I could do with her when the interpreter of the camp, who is a well-educated Armenian, came and, seeing her, said he was looking for a child to adopt. If I did not mind her becoming an Armenian, he and his wife would be glad to have her. He took her away to his house, and she has been there ever since. She became very sick after a few days and they thought she would die, but now she is better. She is nicely cleaned up, with a pretty dress, and looks quite charming. Some color has come into her cheeks, and soon, I hope, she will begin to put on some weight.

On Tuesday one of the motor-transport officers took me with him to Kermanshah. The ride was wonderful; it is the first time I've had a motor ride of any distance for several years. It was a cool day and nippy, just like an October day at home. The country is a succession of parallel mountain ranges with fertile valleys between. The valleys are often covered with a red weed which in the distance looks like a broad expanse of heather. The snow-covered mountains which seem quite near are in reality fifty or sixty miles away and can be seen range after range. The combination makes a scene both wild and grand.

Kermanshah escaped the ravages of the Turks and the Russians so that it is a great relief to see a town which is not three-fourths ruined. It is clean for this part of the world, with a beautiful situation in a valley surrounded by rugged mountains. As soon as I got to town, I went to see the American missionary, Mr. Stead, and he at once invited me to stop with him. His house is just like an old-fashioned American one, and the novelty of sleeping in a bed with a mattress and clean sheets was indeed appreciated. We spent two days in the city, or rather around it, for each day we went out in the motor to see some famous carvings in the mountain-side which date from the days of Darius. The journey home was quite an experience. It began to rain and sleet when we pulled out of Kermanshah and grew bitter cold. When we arrived within eight miles of home, one of the Fords broke down. By towing with the other Ford, we covered a mile and then decided to take one car into camp while the other should stay out till help could be brought. One of the drivers and I waited with the car, and after a couple of hours a car arrived and we reached camp at midnight.

The next day I received news that the army was going to present me with a Ford van and I was to have charge of the line from Rail Head to Karind, a distance of about one hundred miles. From now on my job will be touring up and down the line, trying to keep all the recreation rooms in full swing. It will be very interesting but hard work, but as it will not be for much longer, I shall not mind.

---

Quasr-i-Shirin, Persia
February 16, 1919

I have just held a Sunday evening service which was the first that the men at this station have had, and they have been here for about a year. It is one of my five British recreation rooms, and there are six for the Indian troops which are also my responsibility. Tonight, three places have had services. The men appreciate this opportunity.

Quasr-i-Shirin means "castle of sweetness." In this case, "sweetness" was a queen noted for her beauty and also for playing polo.

I stay about a day in each place and then move along to the next station.

Caravaning across the deserts of Persia made me feel at home in strange and far away places.

A PERUSAL OF MY LETTERS INDICATES THAT AS LONG AS the United States was not in the war, I was perfectly content with my job. But as soon as we declared war, I began to fret about going home. It was not until I returned all the way to India and spoke with the American Consul in Bombay that I was convinced that, being already on active service, the greatest contribution that I could make was by "carrying on" at my present job. I settled down to enjoy my work again; and when the Allies won, instead of leaving for home, for no contract held me there, I stayed on for six months through what was perhaps the most trying period for "Tommy," whose job had been finished but who had to wait his turn on the homeward bound transport.

Since there were no formalities involved in leaving the YMCA service I seized the opportunity to have a look at Persia. Still in my uniform, I had no difficulty hitching rides on the motor transport (Model T Ford cars) and found myself in Teheran several months before Harold Weston, another YMCA secretary, with whom I had planned to cross Persia.

Even before reaching the capital, I had met a group of Americans serving the Near East Relief. I had not seen any white women for two years, and these women and especially their children, to my eyes, were nothing less than angels.

Although accustomed to the cruelty of the East, there was something going on in Teheran which was a shock even to the hardened traveler. The Shah (Emperor) of Persia had cornered the grain market and created a famine which the Near East Relief was attempting to alleviate. Soon I was overseeing groups of laborers, and helping to pass out the much needed rations. Finally Weston arrived, and we started on our journey to see a Persia whose government could hardly have fallen lower.

The diary, I found, now takes up the story.

The numerous friends which I had made in Teheran during my short stay came to see us off on the first leg of our journey south. The "express" wagon which we were about to take, consisted of a springless, topless hay wagon drawn by four horses abreast, Russian style. Our fellow travelers who had arrived before us, had piled their bundles in the wagon, and sat upon them.

We rattled through the city streets and then over rutted tracks, which certainly could not have been called a road, our bones and teeth chattering. On we went hour after hour, generally at a slow trot. Every sixteen miles we came to a Post House where the horses were changed, but the same wagon went on day and night.

While this was going on we all had refreshments consisting of the ever-present Persian tea. The glasses were tiny, served on little saucers on which there were small pieces of sugar. One put the sugar into one's mouth and drank the tea through it. The bread was baked in large flaps of half-inch-thick unleavened, rough-ground wheat baked in a pit on a surface of hot pebbles. Apart from the little stones mixed with the wheat, it was good. Then there was doug which was simply yogurt, although the manner in which it was kept was not entirely appetizing. It was contained in a sheep skin. A thong would be unwound from one of the legs of the skin and with a little pressure the doug gurgled forth. We put all of our hopes on the fact that in order to make doug the milk had to be boiled (hopefully sterilized).

After about ten hours over the rough roads, the Persian travelers went to sleep, and since we were all sitting very close together, my neighbors simply collapsed on me. I made myself as comfortable as possible but, since sleep refused to come to me, I was tormented by the thought of the lice, if not by the lice themselves.

Two days and three nights brought us to the sacred city of Kashan where, in the bungalow of the telegraph company, we had the luxury of a bath, a good meal and a restful night. Twenty-four hours more brought us to the great city of Isfahan where we were delighted to become the guests of the Church of England Mission, the Carr family, and Miss Briggs and Miss Brownrigg.

Isfahan is a battered jewel of a city built in the sixteenth century by the famous Shah Abbas. The old mosques were still beautiful and in good condition with their glistening turquoise domes. The huge arched façades with their brilliant colored tiles in the design of a Persian rug glittered in the brilliant sunshine. Even more fascinating were the patterns of conventionalized Arabic script, white on a deep blue background. They are not to be matched by anything in the West. The huge central square, Maidan, still contains the marble goal posts used for the sixteenth-century polo games, a sport known in Persia since the sixth century. On one side of the square was the lofty grandstand where the Emperor enjoyed the games.

THE GLITTERING COLORED TILES ARE
UNMATCHED IN THE WEST

However, the excitement of the day was a gibbet on which hung the forms of two brigands, who for several years had almost isolated the city from the rest of the world. The men had been killed before they were. hanged, but the people had to be reassured.

In the maze of domed bazaars we were delighted to find artisans producing excellent copper and brass work and particularly the handblocked "India Prints" whose real home had been Persia. There was scarcely a workshop which contained more than two men, presumably of the same family. Mutual trust is not great!

The service of express wagons ended at Isfahan, for south of the city there were not even the rutted wagon tracks, and all transportation had to be on the feet either of man or beast. We therefore engaged a muleteer with three mules for us and a donkey for himself. (He was an old man whose beard was dyed orange, indicating that he had visited Mecca and therefore had the title of Hajji.)

A visit to the bank confirmed the fact that our trip was to be through the Middle Ages, if not the Dark Ages! Since there were no banks along the way, the only medium of exchange consisted of small silver coins crudely minted by striking a ball of silver with a hammer which left the imprint of an ancient King. The absence of banks provided an ideal opportunity for the numerous highwaymen through whose country we would be going; the heavy bag of coins was hardly to be concealed in our luggage.

Sunday, July 6,1919

After tea, the tinkling of bells announced the arrival of our animals. All the baggage being ready, packing the four animals was a simple matter. We had two pairs of saddle bags, one for food and one for small articles. These were placed on the huge straw and cloth saddles, and on top of them our bedding was spread and tied down.

We said farewell and thanks to the Carr family, Miss Biggs and Miss Brownrigg and mounted our steeds, who seemed keen to be on the way. My seat was none too comfortable as there was a huge hard lump in just the spot where I should have desired a hollow. We soon entered the Chehar Bag (a street), turned south, and ascended a hill by one of the few straight Persian roads I have ever seen. A huge graveyard was on the left, with gravestones similar to those of the West. As we reached the top of the hill we twisted around and looked back to see Isfahan, spreading out over the whole valley, with the turquoise domes of Masjid-i-Shah and the Ali Kafu standing out among the tall poplars and chenars. Around us lay typical Persia, the smooth valleys broken by abrupt and craggy hills which look very much smaller than they really are. We dropped over the brow of the hill, and before us lay our path like a white ribbon over the gray plain.

UP AND DOWN THE ARID MOUNTAINS
WENT MULES AND MEN

As we descended the hill, the motion of the mule became so violent that I found it very much more comfortable to walk, besides fearing for the seat of my trousers. After an hour's time, we were approaching the bottom of the steep slope, so I decided to ride again. Fearing I should pull off the load, it appeared best to mount the mule's hind quarters, so with a spring I seated myself on the meagre portion of the animal which projected from the pack. My mule, being a young one, objected and set off at a gallop kicking up her heels, while I clung on for dear life like a clown in the circus. Finding I could not be removed, she quieted down, I squirmed farther forward, and we went quietly on through the fading light.

An hour and a half through the darkness brought us suddenly upon the stopping place. We soon found the caravanserai and unloaded the animals. A caravanserai is a large enclosure of high walls, generally well constructed of brick. The inside square is lined with alcoves open to the air. We picked out one which upon first appearance looked fairly clean, but did not bear close inspection. Each of the mules, as soon as its burdens were removed, had a good roll, or at least as good a roll as its huge pack-saddle allowed, for these are never removed except for a few moments when the animals are being curried.

Weston had brought a Kurdish boy, Abbas, with him. While he was working at the YMCA in Baghdad, Abbas had learned a little Urdu from the Indian servants, a little Arabic from the Baghdadis, and a little English from the Sahibs, so that the jargon which we used was a mixture of four languages. Abbas produced a quickly-prepared meal which the good Carrs had made for us beforehand. Soon we were stretched on our camp beds and asleep, anticipating a long march the next day.

July 7, 1919

Abbas woke us with breakfast ready, which we ate hurriedly as it was late and getting hot. Loading the mules is a slow operation even for our small party, and it was eight o'clock with the sun well up before we started for the distant hills. The desert this morning provided a few flowers, the most striking of which were dwarf hollyhocks, growing about eight inches high, and also a lovely yellow tulip-like flower.

Continuing over the flat plain, we came to a short rocky ascent that brought us to the top of a hill. We saw our staging place in the distance, just at the foot of another hill. This time we were too wise to believe it to be two miles away, as it looked, realizing from yesterday's experience that it was quite eight or ten. As we plodded over the level plain with the heat increasing, we swore that our starts would not be delayed until such a late hour again. This resolve grew stronger as the heat increased, and by the time we were seated in the cool cell of the Shah Abbas Caravanserai at Mayar with a headache apiece, we felt certain that we should never travel by day again.

Mayar is one of the many villages which at one time must have been quite flourishing. On the outskirts of the town a huge walled enclosure with towers on all corners indicated that long ago this had been the seat of a powerful personage. It is surrounded by the broken mud walls of gardens and houses of which there must have been several hundred. A few women and children about the place indicated that it was not entirely deserted, and tree tops visible over standing walls showed that three or four gardens were still occupied. The caravanserai is the only building in good condition. It is not surprising that it should be, for, built in the spacious days of Shah Abbas, contemporary of Queen Elizabeth I, no trouble was spared to make it sound. The entire structure is made of fired brick of the regular Persian shape, large and square, and also of well-cut big blocks of stone.

July 8, 1919

We slept the rest of the day and set out at one o'clock A.M. The moon was half full, giving plenty of light; the air was mildly cool. We started walking. We had got well ahead of the slow-moving mules, for the bells of our caravan had long faded away. After a short rest, we walked on in the failing moonlight, the sowars waiting for the caravan. After about half an hour the moon set behind the mountains on the right, but the track was quite easy to see a few yards ahead. So we kept on at a four-mile-per-hour pace for about an hour. Hearing the dogs of a village not far ahead, we sat down to await the mules. Soon after, we both fell asleep and probably slept for twenty minutes to wake up feeling chilly and stiff. We began to wonder what had happened to the caravan, but walked on to see the entrance of the village. Dogs began to bark. They are half wild in the daytime and like wolves at night.

Then we began to suspect that we were off the road, so walked back in the direction from which we had come, debating the best thing to do and stopping periodically to listen for the bells. We went on for about an hour; and then feeling we must be near the main road, which we suspected might have been on our right, we heard a man singing. The singing grew louder. Hardly had we gone a few steps when the white lines of the main track became plainly visible, and then shadowy men and horses. As we approached them, an excited voice suddenly spoke loudly in Persian, and I could see one of the figures leveling his rifle at me. So I shouted "Feranghi" (foreigner) to which one of the muleteers answered "Bia" (come). He was apparently much wrought up at seeing two feranghis come out of the dark. He gesticulated wildly and tried to tell us something. It was all lost on us, but by signs we understood that our sowars were looking for us. It was three-twenty by this time, and the light in the east, which had been growing for about half an hour, was strong enough for us to see a fair distance.

We started off at our best pace for Kumisheh and passed two donkey caravans. After an hour's hard walk, Weston sat down to look at his toe and found an open blister. We had been walking close to a range of hills on our right while on the left the increasing light disclosed a fertile plain with a village. The mountains on the right reflected the dawn with a beautiful orange light. I was taking all this in when suddenly, about a half mile away, I saw horsemen. Thinking they were probably the sowars, I shouted and they stopped and I saw Abbas. I yelled "Abbas!" and the foremost of the horsemen started towards us at full gallop and was soon beside us, covered with grins. The second and Abbas soon arrived in great excitement. He told us how they had been scouring the countryside. Weston mounted one of the horses and another half hour's hard walk (I was walking) brought us to a tower, which was said to be one farsakh (about four miles) from Kumisheh. I was charmed with the news, as I had been walking in fivas (knitted shoes) and the soles of my feet were sore and tired. Kumisheh did not look far away. Its turreted walls with a profusion of trees and green fields filled the end of the valley. Men were winnowing grain in the distance, and some fine pigeon towers completed the scene which, in the clear morning light and the cool air, was most delightful. The road, however, kept avoiding the town and following the base of the left-hand hill. We walked fast for an hour, and still there was no sign of the end of our journey. I was beginning to get discouraged.

The sowar who was walking was a handsome young Hercules with calves the like of which I have seen only on the Lurish coolies in Mesopotamia. He put up the long-distance sights of his rifle and fired two shots across the valley. Abbas informed me that he was shooting at some peasants who were threshing and winnowing grain. He would have shot again, but I told him to stop. Abbas explained that when they had been looking for us earlier, the sowars had asked the peasants if they had seen two sahibs, whereupon they answered, "No, go away!" The sowars not liking this took several shots at them and were now only completing the bombardment. Fearing my feet would get sorer after three and a half hours of hard walking, I asked the other sowar for his horse. Finally about seven, we eventually came upon a serai (short for caravanserai) and saw our mules and Chavadar Hajji waiting patiently for us. Abbas later told me the sowar had said, "If we don't find the sahibs, I'll be hung!" Thinking we had arrived at our destination, I handed the sowar his horse, when to my great dismay I found our staging place, the telegraph house, was another two miles away. We got there dead tired, and it didn't take us long to get our beds up, clothes off, and fall asleep from the labors of the night.

July 9, 1919

In the evening Abbas produced the best meal yet, and with ravenous appetites we quickly downed soup, cutlets, bully-beef omelette, and best of all, stewed fresh apricots. The sun well down, we dragged our beds out of the alcove and put in a few hours more of good sleep free from the flies and the heat of the day. I awoke about four and found Abbas still asleep, although it was the hour set for departure.

We eventually got away at 6:30. Kumisheh, like all the larger towns, is surrounded by a high defense wall with towered gateways and heavy wooden doors, another significant index that Persia is still in the Middle Ages. As we made our way out of town, the country was charming. The fields were filled with people threshing and winnowing. They place a stack of grain stalks, newly cut, in a pile about six feet high and six yards in diameter. Then, scattering a layer of stalks around the edge of the circular pile, they drive a little sledge on it. Besides runners, the sledge has three or four spindles extending from runner to runner on which are fastened metal discs. The feet of the animals and the sledge cut up the straw and loosen the grain. When the whole pile is finished the mixture is then tossed into the air with pitchforks, the chaff and dust blowing away. The grain, containing at least five per cent dirt, is then shoveled into bags and donkeys carry it away.

We were getting out beyond the cultivation when one of the convoy of two-wheeled mail carts drove up behind us and a Persian boy from the American School in Teheran got off, and we set out walking together. He was the son of the manager of the Persian Telegraph in Shiraz. He confided that his father wanted to give him a position in the telegraph in Shiraz, but as he had another year at school, he was opposed to stopping now. Persian boys seem greatly impressed with the value of education and are much keener and better students than Americans of the same age, or so we heard.

I asked him all sorts of questions. He said that at Mayar the Bakhtiari tribal road guards (the Bakhtiari, Kurds, and Lurs are the three principal nomad tribes of Persia) were demanding a tax on all traffic, which is, of course, illegal and only another form of robbery from which it seems impossible to free Persia. If the robbers are not about, then the police rob, so that those who would travel are never free from threat. It is not to be wondered at that Persians scarcely ever travel and that each town is a comparatively isolated island in a sea of desert infested with robbers or robbing police.

By this time we were well ahead of the mules, and as we were passing near a village, we went in to see whether we could buy some cucumbers and apricots; but the altitude being about six thousand feet here, the season was late, and none of the fruit was ripe except white mulberries. This village also had a huge pigeon tower. It appears that the dung of the pigeons is used for tanning leather. The remarkable thing is that nearly all these pigeon towers are among the best buildings. They are made with burned brick and not infrequently decorated with white plaster. Shortly before noon, we arrived at Maksudbeg, having completed an unusually interesting day. Almost the whole length of the valley, varying in breadth from one to two miles, was filled with a succession of villages strung out along the course of the stream.

The caravanserai at Maksudbeg was an unusual one, having been newly faced with mud plaster, while the whole of the court was filled with rose bushes, though these were not now in bloom. We chose an alcove on the shady side and made ourselves comfortable till evening when we should be off again. At dusk we climbed to the top of the serai roof. In the fading light and the cool of the evening the house-top is a favorite retreat of the Persian.

July 10, 1919

At eleven o'clock, the mules were packed and we were ready to go, but the road guards were nowhere to be seen. After a short time Hajji found them, and off we went across a very dry and deserted plain which would be terribly hot in the day time. Weston and I walked till the moon went down, which was about two-thirty, and at three-fifteen we arrived at Aminabad, which is simply two lonely caravanseries in the desert.

Here we were to say farewell to our Bakhtiari guards for we were approaching Yezdikhass, which is the boundary between the provinces of Fars and Isfahan.

The new road guards wished to await the arrival of the post carts, so we lay down for a not unwelcome sleep of two hours. At 5:30, we were awakened by the guards, an unusually cheery lot who made tea for us. They are not mounted here and had to trudge the whole distance on foot, but they looked quite equal to it, as they were all tall, finely built men. They went with us for two farsakhs and then handed us over to another lot who took us the rest of the way into Yezdikhass. It was not until we had passed through the usual graveyard with its mosque that the town's remarkable nature became evident. A canyon about sixty yards deep and three hundred yards wide cuts abruptly across the gravelly plain.

Near the west bank of the canyon is an "island" the same height as the surface of the plain, and upon it, piled one upon another covering all of it, are houses. This is still very picturesque though most of it is uninhabited and tumbled down.

The island is about fifty yards wide by two hundred long and tapers to a point at both ends, giving the effect of a huge old ship. It was quite a safe refuge for the inhabitants before the days of firearms, for at the approach of evening they would retreat within their citadel and raise the drawbridge, the only avenue of access to the town. They had their wells and food inside and could laugh at their enemies from a secure height. It can easily be imagined that they frequently made use of their retreat, for their land is joined on the south by the most troublesome tribes of Persia. To the southwest extends the country of the Bakhtiari, a large and powerful patriarchal organization of mountaineers who have recently played an important part in Persian politics because of the progressive spirit of their leaders. Nearly due south and alarmingly close lives a tribe of primitive nomad Lurs who are probably the fiercest in Persia. When they attack, it is to plunder, ravage and kill. They destroy everything which cannot be carried off. Fortunately they are not numerous or well-organized. To the southeast covering a huge area, the Turkoman tribe of Kashkai lives, noted fighters and free-booters. This combination is enough to terrorize any peaceful community.

After an examination of the citadel, a scene almost as striking was the river bed covered as far as one could see with the yellowest of ripe, golden grain in contrast to the desert dryness of the plain. The governor of the place had been warned of our coming and climbed up the hill, anxious to be of service. We proceeded to the serai, also of the Shah Abbas period, where the governor invited us to come and stay at his house. So, leaving our baggage in charge of the road guards, we followed him to a pleasant little house on the west side of the ravine and just below the main part of the modern village. Here his nephew and lieutenant, a very energetic man of about thirty, dashed about bringing us tea and wonderful little red plums, and later a long drink of doug. Then spreading small mattresses about a yard square on the floor, we endeavored to sleep while a myriad of flies endeavored to eat us. In about an hour a meal of rice and chicken was ready, with more doug, all of which was tucked away with the greatest of pleasure. Then for another sleep during which I fared better, for I had a fine thin abba, the woolen Arab cloak, to keep off the flies.

At four o'clock we went to see the new village, which is built on the plain on the west side of the ravine. Then we climbed to the old town and walked the length of it through a narrow street. In places the buildings were three stories high, which is tremendous for Persia. The old mosque with a huge crack through the dome was an otherwise exceedingly well-built structure at one time.

After a clean-up, we went back to the governor's house. With the boy from the American School acting as interpreter, we were able to talk with the governor, giving him the news and learning all about the country and his excellent work in guarding the roads. He took great satisfaction in telling us this. Dinner eventually came, and it was worth waiting for; two huge mountains of rice filled the center of the table. Around these were various dishes into which one dipped one's fingers, placing the tidbit on the rice, rolling the two together and then into one's mouth. The pièce de résistance was chicken cooked with walnuts and almonds and pomegranate juice, which gave it an exquisite flavor, also doug and sherbet which is fruit juice and water, very, very sweet. This sherbet was made of the sour orange and was delightful. Fruit and nuts completed the spread so that there was little room for the generous supply of bread. After spending an hour over our meal, we departed with many salaams. Then we turned in at the serai for a few hours' welcome sleep.

July 11, 1919

About one o'clock we began to pack. By the time we had reached the level of the plain, it was after two, and off we went. I walked at the head of the convoy for the first farsakh and then climbed upon my trusty mule for the second. At the half-way tower, we stopped for a cup of tea while the sowars skinned and cut up a gazelle which a road guard of the Post caravan had shot. It was fat and about the size of a pointer.

Two nephews of the governor accompanied us as sowars, the younger mounted on a beautiful little chestnut Arab stallion. Powerful yet dainty, these horses are accustomed to galloping breakneck up hill or down over terrain which I felt would be fatal to any Western animal.

With this picture of a beautiful Arab horse the quotations from my diary come to an end. We came into close contact with the people of Persia, and had measured its vast mountain ranges with our steps.

There were the mighty remains of cities and tombs whose builders had dominated the known world in their time. High on a cliff were carved the tombs of Darius, Xerxes, and Artaxerxes, and not far away the ruins of the impressive palace of Persepolis, the city of the Persians, a vast platform carved out of the solid rock. The lofty columns whose proportions were much more slender than those of Greece nevertheless suggested a close relationship.

Standing on the plateau of this city of the Persians, one looks over a vast plain, and it does not require much imagination to people it with marching armies, for the relief carvings on the walls were nothing less than portraits of the princes of subject nations, done with a perfection of sculpture which could hold its own with Greece and Rome.

The impact of the experience was so great that I still have strong feelings about it. Ever since, I have been incensed that the scholars of the West have given the Greeks so much credit for founding Western culture, nearly ignoring the older Persian. It seems more reasonable that the Greek culture grew as other cultures have, by borrowing and using the advances of their neighbors. When the archaeology of Persia is developed as far as that of Greece, we shall know whether the intellectual blessings of Hellas had Persian sources. I am so convinced that this is the case that I am still hoping to go back to Persia to investigate the truth of this idea.

These speechless representatives of the past telling us so clearly of the greatness of the Medes and the Persians call forth many questions. Why do those European and American professors worship the greatness that was Hellas and ignore the greatness that was Fars? Why this tremendous contrast between the glory of past empires and the misery of today? Why not decide to stay here to help the desert bloom like a rose, for it was from here that roses came to us.

And now we continued our ride or walk through the Middle Ages back into pre-history. Filthy villages strewn with the bones of animals, gnawed by dogs after the humans had finished with them, were thinly scattered in the desert. The filthiest of them was completely surrounded by beautiful white flowering poppies from which the villagers produced their opium. There were few signs of their growing anything else. The bleary-eyed headman and his frowsy court, who seemed just barely alive, were obviously addicts.

July, 1919

Then came the camps of the nomads who spent their winter months on the shores of the rivers of Mesopotamia and their summers in these cool mountains. Their chief was a fine, stalwart man dressed in a high dome-like hat, with a sort of frock coat bound in by a woolen shawl, and wearing baggy trousers. He presented us with a black lamb whose skin might otherwise have been turned into caracul for some Western lady or used for a cap which the elegant men of the Near East wear in spite of the heat.

Through Abbas as interpreter, the chief, with an air of self-satisfied assurance, explained that he always lived "so that the door of the tent can be open." By this he meant that his tribe lived in a pleasant climate moving up or down the mountains as the weather demanded. His statement that the doors could always be open was simply a manner of speaking since not only did the tents have no doors, but the material of black goat's wool was so loosely woven that the winds could blow through the tents. And so we were living in an even earlier age than Cyrus, for apart from their firearms, their lives are being lived much as their bronze-age ancestors had lived. This was the tribe of the Kashkai who never stayed long enough in any one place to raise crops but lived on the milk and the flesh of their huge flocks of goats and fat-tailed sheep.

Gradually the clear air of the mountains gave way to thick atmosphere. As we dropped down the steep slopes, we knew that the Persian Gulf lay underneath the layer of haze and that soon the nights would be as sweat-bathed as the days. Our Persian one thousand and one nights were ending.

Lucky to be independent of the army, I continued my first encirclement of the globe, eastward. There were brief glimpses of culture after culture, separated not by a few hours' jet flight but by a week's sea journey. Pictures remain of the graven images of South India; the erotic gods enjoying their ancient fertility rites. We were indignant to see the idols decorated with the diamond gifts of the poor, and anointed with precious oil, so much needed by the starving people.

I remember the summer palace of Peking, its exquisite design speaking of this mother of art and civilization of which no word had been mentioned in the "History of Art" which I had studied at college. How satisfied we had been with our own limited horizons!

In Seoul, living with American missionaries, I was quick to absorb hatred for the Japanese oppressors so that when we arrived in Japan I saw little of their charm---which later, however, I enjoyed so much.

Back from the wars and landed in San Francisco, what a delight to be re-introduced to that lovely creature, the American girl! True, I had not missed her, but now I found it easy to forget that my mother was awaiting my return while the charming young woman of Oakland brought me up to date on the latest dances.

Chapter Seven
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