It was with some misgiving that I first entered this assemblage, mine being the only hat and camera visible. But during the several _Baïrams_ that I returned there no one ever seemed to resent my presence except one young and zealous police officer who made up his mind that I had no other purpose in visiting the fair of Fatih than to take photographs of ladies. At a tent where wrestling was going on they once demanded a pound of me for admission, supposing that I was a post-card man and would make vast gains out of their entertainment. But at another, where I paid the customary ten cents or less, I was invited into the place of honour; and there, no seats being left, a naval officer insisted on my occupying his—because, as he said, I was an amateur of the great Turkish sport and a guest, _i. e._, a foreigner. Occidental hospitality does not often take that particular form. Another trait struck my transatlantic eye when I happened once to be at Fatih on the last day of _Baïram_. The barkers had all been shouting: “Come, children! Come! To-morrow is not _Baïram_!” Presently cannon banged to announce _ikindi_, the afternoon hour of prayer, which is both the beginning and the end of _Baïram_. All about me I heard people saying: “_Baïram_ is finished.” And _Baïram_ was finished. It was only the middle of a sunny afternoon, and in any other country the merrymaking would have gone on till night. But the children went away, and men began taking down the swings and tents in the most philosophical manner. In 1911 and 1912 Baïram was hardly celebrated at all, as a mark of mourning for the Italian and Balkan wars.