The first part of our journey lay along the Bethlehem road, which was fairly good, but has, I understand, been vastly improved for the German Emperor’s visit. On either side were smiling plains and grey olive groves, dressed in the lovely fresh hues of spring. Carpets of delicate flowers were spread on the roadside—for there are no hedges in Palestine—the air was soft and pleasant and everything took its colouring from the joyous morning. The tomb of Rachel claimed our attention for a moment. We were quite familiar with its appearance from the many illustrations we had seen, so that the simple dome-like structure on the wayside seemed an old friend. Pious Jews, Christians, and Moslems offer their prayers at its shrine, and apparently derive equal benefit from their devotions. A little beyond, on the slope of a hill, the pretty village of Beit Jala gleamed and glittered in the sunlight. The city of Kish, the father of King Saul, originally stood there. Was it to that hill, I wonder, the young, handsome Saul, after his election as King of Israel, returned when he “went home to Gibeah, and with him a band of men whose hearts God had touched”? An element of discord was not wanting as we rode through the peaceful valleys. Overhead wheeled a great vulture, hungrily waiting to swoop down on some dead carcase—a camel or a donkey perhaps—and devour its prey. On a crag close by sat a majestic eagle, his piercing eyes boldly fixed on the sun. The solitary bird seemed a fitting type of the departed glory of Israel. It was pleasant further on to notice signs of human life. Shepherds were tending their flocks and playing on “David’s” pipes—a terrible instrument, by the way, giving forth horrible sounds suggestive of Highland bagpipes in the hands and mouth of a beginner—shepherd-boys were hurling stones from a primitive sling (knitted in worsted) with marvellous skill and true aim at an imaginary Goliath. In contrast to these pastoral amusements, the solemn Moslem, with his shoes carefully removed, his face towards Mecca, performed his religious duties on the roadside, going through his prayers and prostrations unmoved by the curious glances of strangers and pilgrims from other lands. We were now nearing the birthplace of our Saviour, through which city we had to pass. On the east is a narrow valley called the Shepherds’ Plain. Even on this early spring morning it looked a bare treeless spot, with stony slopes shining white, and a few crumbling ruins. It was here, according to tradition, that the angelic messengers announced the glad tidings to the wondering shepherds and sang the magnificent “Gloria in Excelsis.”