I learn that
a mission-service is soon to begin, and that a number of the
villagers will be here for the service. I am impressed with the
quiet (save for the barking of dogs) that prevails in these Arab
villages. I see no drunkenness, and there is no boisterous
rudeness of other sort.
In a little while a score or more of men come quietly to the
mission-house, remove their sandals, pass into the room, and seat
themselves on the earthen floor against the walls. Mrs. Mitry
beckons to me to come to the door; she wanted me to see that row
of forty sandals. She said in her broken way that it was
interesting to her, and she thought it would interest me.
It is only a little while until Mr. Mitry enters and takes his
place at a small table in the center of the room. A half hour or
more is spent in smoking cigarettes - almost every native smokes.
Here it seems that the habit is in no sense considered a vice.
Indeed, the missionary himself, not only smokes, but assists in
making cigarettes for the others. They smoke and smoke until the
room is so darkened that we see each other but dimly through the
haze. I am surprised that I can endure it. The tobacco must be
different from that used in America, for ordinarily a single
cigarette is more offensive to me than was the smoke of nearly
fifty on that evening - for some of the men smoked two or three
apiece in that close room.
