In our canvas streets there is all day long a busy stream of men and boys eagerly selling wares from the city and surrounding villages, and if so inclined we could spend hours in making casual purchases. In the early morning villagers with their simple produce of fowls, ducks, pigeons, eggs, jars of milk and clotted cream—the latter particularly good—come sauntering in and pass away their time in intently gazing at our strange freaks in the way of early “tubs” or substantial breakfasts. Their livestock slung across their shoulders, or carelessly carried head downwards, appears quite a secondary consideration, until they are pounced upon by some _bon-vivant_, who thinks life is not worth living if it is merely to be sustained by commissariat rations—now, alas! minus their redeeming feature of wholesome rum. Once the villager sees a bargain may be made, he wakes up suddenly to the fact of having something to sell, and in the _patois_ of the country explains the number of rupees or annas he requires. That he does not get them need scarcely be said, as his first prices are exorbitant; but after some pantomimic action, or by calling in the aid of some Pathan sepoy near at hand, terms are arranged, and with the silver bits stowed away mysteriously in his waistcloth the innocent native wends his way to another part of the camp, there to dispose of more of his stock. When he has got rid of his little store he does not, as a conscientious husbandman should, go quietly home, but hangs about our tents with a face full of inquiry and amazement. He pushes his curiosity at times almost to impertinence, perhaps with the philanthropic idea of giving us a few wrinkles as to the proper mode of living in this part of the world; but at the first sharp word he “moves on” a few paces, and turns his attention to some other feature of our local life. That he is poor and strictly dishonest there can be no reasonable doubt; but his poverty will pass away if we stay long at Cabul, and his dishonesty will be covered with the cloak of simplicity as long as military law prevails. This class of peasant who comes into our midst is not of the usual bloodthirsty Afghan type; and he comes too, without arms, for our proclamation against carrying weapons is now widely known, and whatever he may be on his native heath, when his tribe is on the war-path, he looks inoffensive enough now.