Bunseer, the chariot builder of Babylon, was thoroughly discouraged. From his seat upon

the low wall surrounding his property, he gazed sadly at his simple home and the open

workshop in which stood a partially completed chariot. His wife frequently appeared at

the open door. Her furtive glances in his direction reminded him that the meal bag

was almost empty, and he should be at work finishing the chariot, hammering and hewing,

polishing and painting, stretching taught the leather over the wheel rims, preparing

it for delivery so he could collect from his wealthy customer. Nevertheless, his fat,

muscular body sat stalledly upon the wall. His slow mind was struggling patiently with

a problem for which he could find no answer. The hot, tropical sun so typical of this

valley of the Euphrates beat down upon him mercilessly. Beads of perspiration formed upon

his brow and trickle down unnoticed to lose themselves in the hairy jungle on his chest.

Beyond his home towered the high-terrest walls surrounding the King's palace. Nearby,

cleaving the blue heavens was the painted tower of the temple of Bell. In the shadow of

such grandeur was his simple home, and many others far less neat and well cared for. Babylon

was like this, a mixture of grandeur and squalor, of dazzling wealth and direst poverty,

crowded together without plan or system within the protecting walls of the city. Behind

him had he cared to turn and look, the noisy chariots of the rich jostled and crowded

aside the sandal tradesmen, as well as the barefooted beggars. Even the rich were forced to

turn into the gutters to clear the way for the long lines of slave water carriers on the King's

business, each bearing a heavy goat skin of water to be poured upon the hanging gardens.

Bon Seer was too engrossed in his own problem to hear or heed the confused hubbub of the busy city.

It was the unexpected twinging of the strings from a familiar liar that aroused him from his

...