If to live is to know more, and to know more only to love more, the least eventful day may possess a minimum of value, and even quiet monotones and grey vistas be found and lost in a glamour born of themselves.In this loud and insistent world the silent places are often overlooked, and yet they are never empty.
More donkeys passed us, carrying vegetables to market, driven by countrywomen in yellowish-white haiks, vast straw hats, and the inevitable veil. Two men passed us with an immense open box containing thousands of eggs, hung between them by a pole on the shoulder of each--export for England: forty-eight millions were sent off in 1902, and this morning's omelette might not be our first Morocco egg. A Moor of some means came by, riding at a hard-held ambling walk his star-gazing white mule: the high-peaked saddle and bridle were of scarlet cloth, the stirrup-leathers of scarlet twisted wool; he wore a creamy woollen haik, falling in soft folds down to his yellow slippers, a turban whose snowy disc of enormous size framed his cinnamon-coloured face in symmetrical folds of spotless white, and the top of a scarlet fez showed in the centre of it.
Almost opposite us a beggar had sat himself down at the edge of the road, under the shelter of the high cane fence--a grimy old greybeard, tanned and worn like a wa