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 "LIKE THE WALLS OF FEZ" Photograph by Harlow D. Higinbotham

now looks out upon you from the page. True, without so much as asking my consent, he had appointed himself my guide and faithful follower; yet so charmingly did he commend himself to me that I had not the heart to bid him hence. He spoke French with a pretty southern accent, while Spanish in his mouth was like the music of the ever-murmuring streams that flow beneath the elms of the Alhambra. His ambition was to come to the United States, where, like a thousand others, he believed that fortune waited for him. During one of our rambles in the city proper Juan paused before a humble doorway, and asked me if I cared to enter and repose in my own house. "My house?" I query. "Yes; of course I live here, but the house is yours." Then I remembered that it is part of Spanish courtesy to offer to one's guest the ownership of all one's goods. Juan