They have frames made on which their embroidery is worked, and on velvet, satin or that beautiful and durable Broussa gauze they embroider with exquisite fineness and taste. The most of their embroidery is done in durable and admirably-arranged colors, in subdued tones, which seem to me remarkable in women who are so fond of brilliant primary colors and ill-assorted contrasts. They have no patterns, but work out graceful and beautiful fantasies, and all done with the most extreme care and fineness, requiring patience and extra good eyesight. We might suppose that these women would take pleasure in making and embroidering their babies’ clothes as do other women, but as babies are simply swathed in endless rollers, like a mummy, until they are six months old, ornament is unnecessary. At the end of six months boy babies are put into pantaloons and girls into loose trousers, both being usually made of large flowered chintz. About the only thing I ever noticed the Turkish women do for their little children was to make toys for them, and they make the most grotesque-looking dogs, lions, cows, rabbits, elephants, camels and doll babies out of rags for their amusement. They never nurse their babies for fear of spoiling the shape of the bust. They are very poor mothers, as they are too ignorant themselves to understand their responsibilities or to teach their children. They alternately slap them or caress and indulge them just as their own humor happens to be good or bad. The little girls are taught to sew and embroider, how to walk gracefully, and recline in the most negligent manner upon the divans, how to play by ear a little on the lute, and to sing their interminable love songs. Their songs are like Barbara Allen, Lovely Young Caroline of Edinboro Town, the Brown Girl, or Gipsy Dave--all long, and telling a whole romance to a plaintive chant. I never learned to speak Turkish, but I got so that I could seize upon the meaning of these songs. The singer always puts all the life and sentiment she can into her music, and often sheds tears as she sings, as do her listeners. I have even seen one or two of them faint away at the most pathetic part. This is a very common trait among Turkish women, and I have not yet been able to decide whether it is the result of a weak will or extreme sensibility, but they faint on every possible occasion. The Turkish women love music passionately, and nearly all of them can play some instrument with taste and feeling, though almost always by ear. Their native music is always sad and plaintive, and often full of such a piercing sorrow that it is no wonder it brings tears. They love flowers, too, and you rarely see one without a flower in her hand when it is possible to get them, and they are fond of birds, and raise a great many themselves. Many of the Turkish women show considerable talent in drawing and painting, though the poor things never have any chance to learn. They simply “pick it up.”