Little people of Asia

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

1. — To Begin 9

2. — Turkish Little People ; the Salted Baby 16

Chapter I. To Begin

There are many queer things in this big world of ours, but there's nothing queerer, I think, than the way children live in different parts of it.

I have always wondered how the little Turks pass away their time, what they play with, and how they feel, bundled up like rolls of dry-goods. I have great curiosity to know how it would feel to be a China girl or boy, and have feet three inches long, or the hair all shaved off the head ; and I've tried to fancy how it would seem to live in a tent like a Tartar youngster, never knowing this week where one will be the next, and thinking a horse is the finest thing in the world.

Well ; being so interested in the ways of little people, I have been for many years trying to find out about them. I said to

IO

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

myself, " I will learn what the youngsters do all over the world ; what they play, what they have to eat, what sort of clothes they wear, and then I will put it all in a beautiful book for our own little people to read ;" and thinking so, I went to work.

But, dear me ! what a time I had !

What shelves full of books I waded through, turning over page after page and chapter after chapter of travels, about bad roads, and untidy hotels where one couldn't get anything fit to eat, and about the weather, and the small discomforts of travelers — just to find now and then a chance word about the children.

I almost began to think there were no children in those far-off countries, for you know — or if you do not I will tell you — that most grown-up travelers fill their books with talk about the big folks, and the sights of the country, and sprinkle them pretty thickly with their own troubles in getting about, and for any notice they take of little people they might as well be blind.

But I would not be discouraged. I had set my heart on telling you young people all about

IN A BASKET.

your little playfellows on the other side of the globe, so I

QUEER BABIES.

1 1 kept on digging in the big books, and I looked over all the papers and magazines, and I went to see everybody I could hear of who had been in those far-off countries, and I asked — ! as many questions as any of you curious boys or girls could do yourself — and all for the book I wanted to make for you.

And now here it is, and I hope you'll like it. I have gathered here a bit and there a bit, and have tried to be very sure that every word is true.

The curious things that I've found out about little folks begin at the very beginning ; for nothing is more strange than the way people treat babies. Having his head shaved clean as the back of his hand, is not specially queer to a youngster who had a boiling hot omelet poultice on the same head before he was two days old — is it now ?

Three inch long feet are not odd to an unfortunate girl who had her wrists tied together when a baby to make

° J IN ARMS

her truthful ; dressing in stripes of

paint, with loads of brass jewelry, can't be much of a surprise to one who spent every day of baby life half buried in the ground, set out like a plant.

Living in a six-foot tent, and never having any bigger house, comes natural enough lo a child whose only cradle was a shoe.

You think I'm joking? Far from it! These are not half the wonders that happen every day in the world. Let me tell you.

It is the mother of Guinea who buries her baby alive, up to its waist, in warm sand ; and it is to keep it out of mischief

LITTLE PEOPLE OE ASIA.

while she works. The little Lapp is the youngster whose cradle is a shoe — a big affair, covered with skin and stuffed with soft moss, in which he can either be hung to a tree, or covered up in the snow while Mamma goes to church.

The Eskimo carries her baby inside her fur sack, at the back of her neck, and our own Indians strap baby to a board, and sling him over the shoulders.

QUKER BABY CARRIAGE.

In India the babies ride in a basket hanging from Mamma's head, as you see on page IO, or on her hip, or in a hammock, as in the little way-side sketch, or, in some parts they are adorned with a nose-ring, like their mother's, and wrapped up in a veil like her also.

In China they're tied to an older child's back, and among the Mongolians they travel about in bags slung on a camel's side.

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

One mother lays her baby where a stream of water will fall on its head, to make it tough, she says ; another covers hers with paste, and a third hangs hers in baskets from a straight sup-

IN A HAMMOCK.

port, as you see in the picture on page 12, where the family have stopped to rest, and left the little ones in their baskets ready to be carried on their journey again.

AN OMELET ON BABY'S HEAD.

The Bulgarian mother it is who puts a hot omelet to the little one's head, to make it solid and protect it from sunstroke ; and the Bulgarian baby doesn't like it any better than you would. He makes a great row about it, I assure you.

The Turkoman Mamma carries her little one in a hammock, as you see on the preceding page ; but the queerest cradle of all is this from Central Asia.

THE ODDEST CRADLE OF ALL.

i6

Chapter II. The Salted Baby ; The Little Turk

The Turkish Mamma salts her precious baby. Perhaps this is the queerest of all, and it is for the same reason that we salt meat — to keep it sweet !

This is one of the least of the odd things that happen to him. After his salting comes dressing, such as it is, and it is only a little shirt ! Oh, yes ! and a red silk cap on the head, with a pearl tassel, and some gold coins and charms to keep away evil.

But after dressing comes wrapping up, for the poor little Turk baby is made into a bundle, so that he can stir neither hand nor foot, and only move his head. This is the way they do it : A quilt is prepared, a yard square ; this is laid out on the floor and one corner turned down. On the quilt, baby in his shirt and cap is laid cornerwise, with his head over the turneddown corner. Then the corners of the quilt are brought up over him, after his toes are carefully turned in, and his arms laid flat to his sides. Over the quilt is tightly wound a long strip of cloth, and the baby is a perfect mummy.

That is dreadful enough, but worse is to come. First he gets his name in this gentle way : His father takes him in his arms, carries him behind the door (!) mutters a prayer over him, and then shouts in his poor little ear, three times, the name which has been selected for him. I suppose he thinks baby is deaf !

NO USE TO CRY.

Then comes the cradle, and I wish you could see the torturebox called by that name (or beshik, which means cradle). It is a long, narrow box on two rockers. The ends of the rockers come up over the top and have a rail across, on which the nurse leans to feed the baby ; for when once he gets in he has to stay, I can tell you. No use to cry to come up ; u coming up " is almost unknown to him.

In the box is a hard mattress, and no pillow, and in this, on his back, the poor little baby bundle is laid. Lest he should prove refractory and get out — with all that wrapping up — they tie him in !

On his breast and his knees are laid small cushions, so that the binding will not press on him ; a red gauze veil is thrown over him, and thus he is left half a day at a time. When he is hungry he is, perhaps, fed, and the rest of the time he amuses himself with a little sugar and bread tied up in a rag.

Poor baby ! If after all this he is restless, he gets a dose of opium or something similar, and then he is quiet enough. Some babies lie all the time in a stupid, dozing state ; all of them are injured by it, and many of them go from their cruel cradles to their little graves.

If anything ails a child, it is thought to be the " evil eye, " and some old woman is called in to breathe on it. If that fails, they call in the most celebrated sheikh they can find, and he breathes on it, and puts on a charm (made of garlic, alum, and a verse of the Koran, all sewed up in little triangles of blue cloth), and a few amulets of blue glass, such as horseshoes, little hands, and so forth.

If all these wonderful things fail to cure the child, and he dies, the easy-going parents wipe their tears, say it is kismet, and go i8

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

on with their usual duties. By kismet they mean what we call fate. " Whatever is to be, will be," they say, and there's no use mourning about it.

Perhaps there are no more superstitious people on the round globe than these same Turks. Nothing happens to them without supernatural agency, as they believe. If anything is lost, some one cast the " evil eye " on it ; if you look sharply at one, you are casting the " evil eye " on him. Every action has regard to omens ; nothing can be done unless the signs are right. They believe in dreams, they believe in magic, they believe in " spells ;" there's nothingsupernatural that they do not believe in.

We may laugh at this, but it is a serious matter to them, a matter of life and death. Many a girl has died because she thought herself bewitched.

I haven't told you all the things that happen to the baby Turk. When he is two days old -invitations are sent out for his first reception, to take place on the next day. It is not done by means of cards, nor of written notes ; instead, each person invited receives a bottle of sherbet, a drink made of candied sugar and spices.

The third day the house is thrown open to visitors, and everybody comes who chooses, whether invited or not. If he is invited, however, he has dinner served to him ; but if not, he has to content himself with sherbet.

This is an affair of great ceremony. Bands of music are on hand to escort the most important guests in, and each guest is preceded by a servant bearing a gift. If the family is well-todo the present is a basket of sweets, prettily arranged with flowers and gilt paper, wrapped in gauze, and tied up with ribbons ; but if poor, the gift takes a useful form, coffee or provisions.

A BROOM PROTECTS HIM.

I 9

Mamma, gorgeously but rather uncomfortably arrayed and placed, receives her lady guests, who say to her, " Wonderful ! let it be long-lived and happy."

And now comes a queer thing. We should hasten to look at the baby, and say nice and pleasant things about it ; but if we did, its mother would be very angry at us. The Turkish ladies scarcely look at it. If they speak of it at all, they call it " u gly>" or " naughty," or " dirty ; " and if one ventured so far as to look at the poor little creature, it is instantly spat upon — to protect it from harm.

Still worse ; every guest is suspected of throwing an " evil eye " on the child, and the moment one goes, measures are taken to see if it has been done. How do you suppose thay find out? They throw cloves on the fire ! This is not fun, it is dead earnest ; and if a clove happens to burst in burning, there's a great hue and cry, and the most violent efforts made to avert the bad effects.

These efforts are worthy of the cause. A lock of hair from the baby and one from its mother are solemnly burnt ; prayers are said, blows are given over the child, and he is spat upon till his friends think he is sufficiently treated.

Another thing : Baby must never be left alone for an instant, or he will become possessed by certain evil spirits. Not even his mother can protect him from this, but if he must be left, as in poor families he sometimes is, a broom standing beside him will guard him from danger.

On the eighth day comes the next great ceremony in the little Turk's life ; he goes to the public bath. This is a great affair. Company is invited, and they march in procession, baby on the lead. Each family sends carpets and bathing linen, and there

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

they all spend the day, having refreshments served, and going through various ceremonies considered necessary on the occasion. The worst, as usual, happens to the baby ; he has hot water thrown over his poor little body, and he is rubbed and scrubbed till he shrieks and screams like any little westerner of you all.

After this there are for some time no more special ceremonies ; baby lies in his mummy case, in his box-like cradle, sucks his sugar rag, sleeps his opium sleep, and is rocked from morning till night, and from night till morning. The rocking-string is never out of the hand of mother or nurse. No wonder the black-eyed Turkish baby grows solemn and quiet, looking at life with calm indifference, seldom laughing or crying, never kicking or crowing. He can't kick ; he has nothing to laugh at ; he doesn't know how to crow. It is not surprising that a Turk can sit on a carpet all day long, sipping coffee, smoking and talking, or listening to story-telling. It is no wonder that he is never in a hurry, that he regards time as something to be gotten rid of. If he can't do a thing to-day he may be able to do it to-morrow, and in any case he maintains a repose which we hurrying western people can never attain.

When the baby grows old enough to kick, in spite of his wrappings, he is allowed to creep about. Then, too, he begins to eat something besides milk; and how do you suppose the tender Turkish mother teaches her baby to eat ?

She prepares a little basket of food, all kinds of fruits and sweet things, and gives it to the little one to help itself. The child eats whenever it feels like it, and whatever it fancies, from the basket. Hundreds of Turkish babies die every year from this one cause.

IN A TURKISH HOUSE.

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

These are queer ways, to be sure. Let me tell you what a queer house he lives in. In the first place, when you come up to it in the street, you see nothing but a high wall, with a meanlooking door in it. You'd think you were going into some warehouse or other unattractive place. But inside — if it was the house of a well-to-do man — you would find a delightful yard or court, with fountains and trees and flowers, and built around this yard on all four sides you would see the house.'

A fine Turkish house is a beautiful thing to see. Our little salted baby — if his papa has plenty of money — has grand rooms to live in, such as you have read about in the Arabian Nights, and even more beautiful, some people say.

Here is a picture of part of an elegant Turkish room to show you how they look, and how the walls are made. The windows you see, are very large and open almost the whole wall. On the farther side you see the divan, the only seat in a Turkish house. It is a wide, low lounge, running around three sides of the room generally, and covered with some gay-colored stuff, with big pillows leaning against the wall. On this the people sit, with feet drawn up under them.

Not a table or a chair ; not a book, paper, or magazine ; not a picture nor a nick-nack in sight ; not one of the dozens of things we think we must have. What sort of people live here?

Look at them. Here's the mother in her own room, the harem. She half sits up among her pillows on the divan. She has very full trousers, which fall in folds over her ankles, as you can see in the young girl who is standing up, taking a scolding from the old servant on the floor. Then she has a gold-embroidered jacket of velvet or satin, and perhaps a cashmere shawl around her waist.

IN A TURKISH HAREM.

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

Her long hair — which you cannot see in the picture — is braided in ever so many fine braids, with gold pieces and jewelry hanging all over them ; and when she is dressed she has loads of jewels on arms, and hands, and neck, and head, and ears, and ankles, and even toes ; everywhere she can hang a precious stone or a gold ornament she hangs one, and a gorgeous object she is to behold.

And that isn't all. Around her head and shoulders, is a veil, her feet are bare, and she is smoking a pipe, or more politely a narghile. You see it standing on the floor, under the care oi the old servant, while the lady holds the mouth-piece in her hand.

A strange looking mother, to be sure ! But how does the father look? Here he is in his own part of the house — for Turkish houses, however poor, are always in two parts, the women's, or the harem, and the men's, and they are as separate as though they were under different roofs.

His room is as big and as bare as hers, and there he sits cross-legged among his cushions, with wide trowsers that hang like a skirt when he walks, a wadded dressing-gown, generally held together by a rich shawl, and on his head a turban. If he isn't smoking he is drinking coffee.

There you have the father and mother; they're not much like yours, you see, at least on the outside.

How about the children ? Well ; they look about as odd, to our eyes. The boy dresses exactly like his grave papa, in turban and wide trowsers, pointed slippers, and a dressing gown, and the girl is a copy of mamma, in silks and satins, with embroidery and jewels, and pink dye on fingers and toes, and a veil, if she's old enough.

But you don't see how people live in such a house ! How do

A TURKISH PAPA.

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

they eat without a table to hold the dinner? how do they keep warm without a fire ? how do they light the house without gas, or a place to stand a lamp?

I'll tell you how the little Turks pass their day. When they hear that their father is up, and taking his coffee — which is all he takes for breakfast, they jump out of bed and run and ask him for money.

In their night-clothes ? I hear you cry.

Alas, children ! Turks have no night-clothes ; they sleep in their day garments. In the same wadded dressing-gown sort of a coat that he wears always in the house, the boy lies down to sleep ; and in all her in-door finery of silks and satins, the girl does the same. So do their father and mother, and so does nearly everybody. No fuss of dressing, you see. I'm afraid you boys would like, that. A new garment is put on once for all, and worn night and day till worn out, or given away.

Don't forget, by the way, that I am telling you about Turkish customs, as they have been for ages, and not about the ways of Turks who have been trying to live like Europeans, of late.

To go on with the children's day. They ask for money every morning ; every Turkish youngster, down to the very beggars — and they generally get a little.

As soon as they leave their beds the slaves begin to roll them up from jthe floor.

From the floor! no bedsteads? Not a bedstead in all Turkey. At night, the slaves — which are the only servants among the Turks — spread on the floor for each one a mattress, or rather a bag of wool, then a sheet and narrow pillow, with linen case open at both ends, then a thick coverlid of satin or brocade (or chintz, if the people are poor), with the upper sheet sewed on to it.

HE NEVER FORGETS HIS PRAYERS.

In the morning the beds are rolled up and packed away in closets, and the room is ready for any use. So you see there's not only no bedstead, but no bedroom in the " Jewel," which the Turks consider their country.

A s soon as papa has finished his two or three cups of coffee, cups about the size of a big thimb 1 e , h e prepares to go out. He lays off his dressing gown, puts on a long-sleeved vest and a coat or jacket of some sort, and goes to the bazar, if he's a merchant, or to the barber's, or a coffee-house,

where he will sit and sip coffee, and smoke, and talk, or listen to story-telling all day, if he has no pressing business to attend to. But whatever he does you may be sure he never forgets to go through his prayers at certain appointed hours of every day.

i^=: f0 tl

A TURK AT HIS PRAYERS.

When the hour arrives, the good Mohammedan spreads his prayer carpet on the floor, wherever he may be, turns his face toward the city of Mecca, and goes through certain forms. The pictures show two of the attitudes.

And mamma? Well, she plans her day ; makes up her mind whether she will visit some friends or go and ride in her carriage

ANOTHER POSITION OF PRAYER.

(if she has one), or make a trip to the bazar to buy something, or whether she will go to the bath.

Meanwhile the children have been out, and spent their money on cakes and sweet things, and had something to eat, though the first regular meal is at ten or eleven o'clock. If they go to school they start off with their particular slave to take care of

NAUGHTY BOYS ARE WHIPPED.

2 9 them, and an expensive school-bag to hold the Koran, their only school book. School is a droll place ; no arithmetic and geography, no writing and drawing, nothing is taught but religion, the Koran, how to read it in Arabic, and sometimes what it means.

That is, usually. In some schools in Damascus writing is taught as well as arithmetic.

In these schools the boys sit on the floor, cross-legged, holding the paper in the left hands, and taking ink out of long brass inkstands worn in the girdles.

Where they learn only the Koran they are placed in rows, standing on their knees, and each one holding his book, from which he reads the lesson aloud, while he sways his body back and forth all the time ; — one or two hundred together sometimes.

Different from your school, isn't it?

At one end of the room sits the master, on a mat, with pipe in one hand and rod in the other. Naughty boys are whipped with the rod, or decorated with a wooden hobble over the ankle.

You may laugh at this sort of a school, but it's a very important thing in the life of a little Turk. Nothing is done without certain ceremonies, and the first day in school is rather funny, — as we look at it.

To begin with, the child, who is always quite young when he enters school, has a new suit of clothes, and an expensive school-bag, with the Koran, as I told you.

Thus prepared his father leads him to school, and as a sort of examination before the teacher, he recites the creed, that is, you know, what all good Mohammedans believe.

This ceremony over, the new scholar kisses the teacher's hand, and then joins the class, and the father goes home.

LITTLE PEOPLE OF ASIA.

This isn't all. After prayers are recited, the scholars form a procession, headed by the teacher, and lead home the new boy. As they go through the streets the teacher chants prayers, and the scholars respond to each one, " Amin ! Amin !"

When they reach the boy's house the father meets them, offers refreshments, and what they probably like better, a piece of money (about one cent), to each schoolmate of his son. Then comes a rush into the street to find some peddler of sweets, and in a few minutes every cent is spent.

This curious ceremony is repeated at the first examination, when the teacher is presented with some money and clothes.

Out of school hours the youngsters do their best to have a good time. The poor children play in the streets, make mud pies, and paddle in the water, as they do nearer home ; while the boys and girls of richer houses play around the house or the court.

I told you about the court, you remember. It is a delightful place generally, and entirely hidden from the world outside. Here the children play, and here the father comes to spend the cool hours of a summer evening.

But what do the children have for playthings? Now, alas! I know you will feel sorry for your poor little Turk, when I give you a list of the playthings, for I can give you a list. Think of a list of your playthings ! Think of the hundreds of different things in a toy-shop and then hear what these children have..

The girls have a miserable apology for a doll — it is impossible to imagine a girl who never had a doll — made of bundles of rags, and a cradle for the same. The bo)^s have rattles and trumpets, and at certain seasons of the year a figure, a sort of punchinello, made of wood and daubed with bright-colored paint, without regard to where it should be put on.

WHAT THEY PLAY WITH.

They have also a few tops of terra cotta. That is all. No books or papers for them ; a few games, such as " knuckle bones " (or jack-stones, as you say), ball, and bows and arrows ; scarcely any other toys.

Even these are in spite of the teaching of Mohamet, their great prophet. He says this hard thing about the children : " Our religion forbids children to have any toys. Studies must be directed toward religion and war, and for that reason they must ride, and use the bow and gun, but nothing else."

Boys are meant to be grave little copies of their dignified papa, and they are funny little old men, when in their father's room, in the presence of guests. At such times the smallest Turk will walk in with the utmost dignity, make a low bow, and sit down gravely in the farther corner, speaking only when spoken to, and in every way trying to behave like a grown-up man.

This would be all very well if it would last, but, sad to say, no sooner does the boy get into the other part of the house than he acts like a very different person. He uses bad language, plays ill-natured jokes on the slaves, teases everybody, and if he cannot have what he wants, he stamps, and pounds, and screams, and behaves very badly indeed.

To return to their amusements. They partake of their mother's entertainments, for you must remember that Turkish women, kept secluded in the harem, with little education, are not much more than children themselves. Their principal enjoyments are shopping, visiting, and going to the bath. Whichever mamma decides to do she begins to prepare for the first thing in the morning.

She does not simply slip on a street dress and pair of walking

LITTLE PEOPLE OF A SLA.

boots, as does your mamma ; she spends hours at her toilet. She first whitens her face to a fashionable shade with some cosmetic, and then rouges her cheeks. She blackens her eyebrows and eye-lashes ; and after all that there are fifty things to be done before she is ready to put on her street garments ; for, however much time she may spend on her dress, when she goes into the street she must look like every other Turkish lady, so that her dearest friend would not know her.