The dunes, yellow and gray, between which we rode on to Jericho were round as though a giant hand had played with them, smoothed them over, and left them there. Twice we passed low stone houses with cisterns of water cut in deep rock hidden below the surface, and there were oranges and green things in the garden in the midst of the desert. It was cooler and the air was soft and balmy. The walls of Jericho—City of Palms—though now there are none, had indeed fallen, but there was no fear upon the faces of the people. The once mighty city is now but an ordinary village of lower class Arabs, with a supply station, a few shops, and the hotel where British officers live. Traces of recent battle over the very ground where the men of Joshua had routed the ancient enemy were all about us. The story of the taking of Jericho from the Turks by British troops when the river at its flood had to be bridged by boats and the temperature ran to 120° and more, is as thrilling, as fascinating, and as triumphant as that of Joshua himself. Passing through the center of the town, we came to the orange groves. The air was fragrant with the perfume of thousands of jonquils growing wild along the edges of the irrigated section. The children offered two huge bunches for sale and we rejoiced in them. Our driver took twenty bunches for a friend to sell in Jerusalem. He tucked them away neatly in the folded top of the car. We bought delicious oranges and our machine became a chariot of delight. We went out to Elijah’s Spring, whose waters, made sweet and wholesome by the prophet, were responsible for the luxuriant flowers and delicious fruit, past the home of Rahab who had saved the spies in Joshua’s day, stopping for a moment at the spot where the sycamore tree had sheltered the rich publican Zacchæus when he determined to see Jesus. It was easy to imagine the consternation that filled the city when it became known that Jesus had commanded him to come down because He would be a guest in his house that day—the house of a _publican_. It was on this road, too, that Bartimæus met Jesus and, despite the demand of the multitude that he be quiet, continued to cry aloud until the Healer saw him, opened his eyes and set his soul on fire with gratitude. How close the multitude must have pressed in those narrow streets, as driven by curiosity and longing for help, they followed Him! How often the body and soul of the Master must have cried out for the shelter of the mountain, the stillness of that waiting desert where in the night God could come very near with a new message and new strength for the coming day! It was at times like these, when half carelessly they pointed out to us the spots where on common days Jesus passed by, changing forever the lives that He touched, that we loved Him.