I was fascinated by the camel trains; they are a part of the East I hardly expected to find. I thought their day was about over. Nothing of the sort. The camel trains, in fact, own Smyrna, and give it its commercial importance. They bring the great bulk of merchandise--rugs, mattings, nuts, dried fruits, spices, and all the rare native handiwork from far dim interiors that railroads will not reach in a hundred years. They come swinging out of Kurdistan--from Ispahan and from Khiva; they cross the burning desert of Kara Koom. A camel train can run cheaper than the railway kind. A railway requires coal and wood for fuel. A camel would like those things also. But he is not particular--he will accept whatever comes along. He will eat anything a goat can, and he would eat the goat, too, if permitted--horns and all. Consequently, he arrives at Smyrna fit and well fed, ready for the thousand miles or so of return trip at a moment's notice. They run these camel trains in sections--about six camels in each. An Arab mounted on a donkey that wears a string of blue beads for luck leads each section, and the forward camel wears against his shoulder a bell. It is a musical compound affair--one bell inside the other with a blue bead in the last one to keep off the evil eye. I had already acquired some of the blue strings of donkey beads, and I made up my mind now to have a camel bell. By-and-by, at the entrance of a bazaar, I saw one. It was an old one--worn with years of chafing against the shoulder muscle of many a camel that had followed the long track from the heart of Asia over swamp and steep and across burning sands. At the base of the outer bell was a band of Arabic characters--prayers, no doubt, from the Koran, for the safety of the caravan. I would never leave Smyrna without that bell. However, one must be cautious. I gave it an indifferent jingle as I passed in and began to examine other things. A murmuring, insinuating Moslem was at my elbow pushing forward the gaudy bits of embroidery and cheaply chased weapons in which I pretended an interest. I dallied and priced, and he grew weary and discouraged. Finally, hesitating at the doorway, I touched the bell again, scarcely noticing it. "How much?" "Sixtin franc--very chip." My impulse was to fling the money at him and grab the treasure before he changed his mind. But we do not do these things--not any more--we have acquired education. Besides, we have grown professionally proud of our bargains. "Ho! Sixteen francs! You mean six francs-- I give you five." "No--no--sixtin franc--sixtin! What you think? Here--fine!" He had the precious thing down and was jingling it. Its music fairly enthralled me. But I refused to take it in my hands--if I did I should surrender. "See," he continued, pointing to the inscription. "Oh, be-eautiful. Here, fiftin franc--three dollar!"