At the race course the army lines the fence bordering the track, while half a dozen heavily equipped peasants in black alpaca caps vie with each other as to the speed of their respective mounts. At one meet which I attended, a rider was thrown within a short distance from the tape, which his horse was about to cross ahead of the other contestants by two hundred yards. But his mind was set upon winning the race by fair means or foul and, picking himself out of the dust, he bravely endeavoured to cross the line on foot in advance of the fast-approaching cloud of rivals. Upon his failure to do so a heated discussion immediately arose as to whether the horse won the race or the rider lost it. For a Balkan city Belgrade is exceptionally apt in acquiring the ways and “means” of the Westerner. As the traveller is about to leave the hotel to take a train a hall bell is rung, followed by a general mustering of all hands, from the head clerk to the cook’s helper, each of whom expects to receive some token of appreciation for services rendered. I suppose I had helped at least sixteen to establish themselves in business, and was just about to make a second start for the depot when one of the confederates came running breathlessly towards me. Would I be good enough to wait just _one_ moment because the _zimmer mädchen_ (and Heaven knows I tipped _her_ munificently each time she brought me warm water for shaving or lined the marble bathtub with a sheet—and in Belgrade a bath costs seventy-five cents, anyway) was on her way downstairs? But time was precious with me and as I drove away I heard, faintly, the tardy and disappointed _zimmer mädchen_ clattering along the flagstone hall. I even saw an automobile, of uncertain vintage and questionable parentage, in Belgrade, honking its noisy way through the crowds of gaping peasants near the market. And in the word “market” I have unconsciously mentioned one of the most interesting sights to be had during a visit to a Slavonic city. Every day is “market-day” in Belgrade, but on Sunday mornings the bizarre scene is augmented by peasants in holiday garb from all the surrounding country-side, while Turkish “boze”-sellers (this word “boze” is not to be conflicted with the American slang expression which signifies intoxicating liquors) peddle about the contents of their buckets, shrieking the avowed virtues of their stock in trade. This “boze,” a sort of sweetened oatmeal water, is freely consumed in Servia by shopkeepers, artisans and peasants. [Illustration: A “BOZE” PEDDLER, BELGRADE.] But I must withhold the description of a typical market scene in the Balkans, and devote a certain amount of space to it in connection with the Bulgar capital of Sophia where one of the most interesting markets in the world is held on Friday of each week.