On the second day, traveling up this valley, we come to what tradition says is Noah’s tomb. Strange to say this tomb is _eighty-five feet long_. It is built of stone and is eight feet wide, seven feet high and eighty-five feet long! Seeing this, I am at once reminded of an incident that is said to have occurred with an American preacher. At the close of the Saturday service, the clergyman announced that he would preach again on Sunday, after reading a certain portion of scripture. Before the hour for Sunday service, some mischievous boys slipped into the church with a bottle of glue and pasted two leaves of the Bible together, so that in reading the minister would miss connection. Eleven o’clock came, and with it came also a large concourse of people. Ascending the pulpit, the reverend gentleman opened the sacred book and began to read. On the bottom of one page he read: “And Noah, when he was an hundred and twenty years old, took unto himself a wife who was”—and then turning over the leaf and missing connection, he continued, “who was an hundred and eighty-six cubits long, forty-seven cubits wide, built of gopher wood, stuck with pitch inside and out.” With trembling knees and confused head, the minister, with stammering tongue said: “Brethren, I have been preaching twenty years and yet I confess that I have never seen this in the Bible before. But it is here and I accept it. Yes, brethren, I accept it as an undying evidence of the fact that we are fearfully and wonderfully made.” So, since I find that Noah’s tomb is eighty-five feet long, I am not much surprised to learn that Mrs. Noah was one hundred and eighty-six cubits long. Day has succeeded night again. This is the third day since we left the Damascus road. We are now camped in the valley at the base of Lebanon, which is at this point 10,000 feet high and almost as steep as the roof of a house. Many loose rocks and bowlders of all shapes and sizes are scattered promiscuously over the mountain side. There is no road to be seen—nothing more than a cow trail or hog path. And yet in order to see a single Cedar we are compelled to climb to yonder giddy heights. Well, we all start—three gentlemen and two ladies. One woman soon gives out, but the other is the kind of a woman who, when she says, “I will,” means with a twist on it, “_I will!_” She says that she started and she is going. She reminds me of the French woman who started to the top of Mont Blanc. Twelve hundred feet before reaching the summit she gave out, and, being dragged by guides, she kept crying: “If I die carry me to the top.”