Apart from the hereditary marabouts there are the “little” marabouts, who live miserably on public charity beside the tomb of some ancestor who died in the odour of sanctity. Many of these so-called marabouts manage their affairs uncommonly well and are really wealthy men. Here is a story I have been told, which gives one an idea of the way these “little” marabouts set up in business. Mohammed ben Mohammed was a marabout whose affairs were in a most flourishing condition. Pilgrims visited his ancestor’s tomb by hundreds, leaving many and rich offerings, and Mohammed ben Mohammed grew fatter and wealthier daily until his servitor, Ali ben Ali, became tired of watching his master’s increased wealth and bulk, whilst his own pocket was as flat as his body was thin. So one dark night he silently took his departure, riding on the back of a young ass belonging to his master. After a march of about thirty miles the ass had enough of carrying Ali. It was a young ass, and knew no better, so it went on strike, lay down, and forthwith died. Thereupon Ali dug a big hole and put the ass in, piling a great mountain of stones over it. Then, sitting down beside the heap, he began to pray. A traveller passing inquired by whose tomb he prayed so fervently. Ali was filled with astonishment. “What! Had he never heard of the great Saint Amar ben Amar (literally ‘an ass, the son of an ass’)? All the people of the country round came there to pray.” The traveller did not fail to mention the Marabout Amar ben Amar’s tomb, and soon pilgrims flocked to it with offerings, and Ali ben Ali grew fat and rich. The faithful neglected Mohammed ben Mohammed, who at last, furious, abandoned his marabout in order to pay a visit to his rival. Great was his astonishment when he recognised his runaway servitor. Taking him aside, he whispered, “Tell me the truth. Who is your marabout?” “The ass I stole from you. And now tell me--who is your marabout?” “The mother of the ass you stole from me!” I conclude that the two Arabs chuckled together and continued to exploit the faithful in common, but history does not relate any more of their doings--nor, indeed, does it vouch for the complete veracity of the story. It is, however, to my personal knowledge quite the sort of thing one might expect to happen. [Illustration: THE AUTHORESS AND HER CHILDREN IN THE CEDAR FOREST NEAR TENIET-EL-HAAD. _From a Photograph._] (_To be continued._) My Alaskan Christmas. BY W. E. PRIESTLY, OF FAIRBANKS, ALASKA.