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difference in perspective. . . . In the In the desert theatre the horizon line widens until the human creature dwarfs into a mere atom, and even the caravan where every tribal instinct was centred - for the moment disappears into immensity, and leaves but its tracks upon the shifting yellow sands.

Our first stand was made beyond the pyramid field, on the edge of the great Libyan Desert. We sat in the evening by our tent flap, gazing at the palm trees of the distant village of Dashur, which we knew would soon be lost to sight as we continued our trail into the wide horizon of the desert.

This dramatic pause in the day's adventures rightly presaged a change of mood. An armed guard, sent by the sheik of the village, arrived to look over the personnel of our troupe and see if we were harboring a desert pirate with a price on his head. For these Arab sheiks are stern upholders of tribal rights, and their tribunal is still the gun rather than the court of law. Reassured by Machmud, they stayed and took part in what became a lyric interlude instead of what might have beenthe last act of a melodrama.

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We were suddenly reminded by the tuning-up of a chorus that the second performance of our repertory theatre was about to begin. This proved to be a strictly Arab folk-drama and even the tabla and sofara were banned as too sophisticated, being pro-Egyptian. The ballad form is still the popular Bedouin tradition. The performance had all the flavor of true romance and the 'personal note' desired by our ablest critics. The lyric was apparently aimed at one of our guests, who tossed his gun carelessly while he pantomimed an acknowledgment in response. The romantic cadences told that it was a love song, and through our interpreters we gathered that in Bedouin life romance is not confined to the past but flourishes

also in the present. The love song celebrated in extemporaneous couplets the charms and beauty of a lady in a near-by village, soon to be the bride of our guest who brandished his gun so carelessly, and who seemed to suggest a Bedouin Cyrano, so swift and apt were his responses. They sang of his lady's eyes; of the day when he had seen her pass on a camel; when he swore to win her love; of the beauty of the night; and of passionate love too great for any heart to hold. And then they sang of the rival who also claimed the lady. And-still in song - he said, if the rival won his lady, it was Allah's wish that this should be; and so his rival would not be slain.

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As a foil to this romantic tale there was an interlude of a martial character in which the gun became the dramatic 'prop' of a war dance. Far into the night they sang and danced, these children of the desert, as the moon played over the tops of the distant palm trees.

Caravan life and fighting winds and sands are too absorbing in mid-desert to admit of the nightly repertoire; but rehearsals were always called, and the regular subscribers had the sense of real adventure in the addition of occasional neighborhood patronsgazelles, hyenas, and jackals.

It was only when the stage was set on the fringe of the palm trees and canals of an oasis that another important opening claimed the attention of first-nighters. This was a gala performance of a visiting company. All star cast was promised and did not fail. The custom of the desert is to offer both food and lodging to its entertainers who come without wardrobe trunk or toothbrush to spend the night. After the customary hospitality had been dispensed, the dining-hall with Machmud's deft technique was soon

changed into stage and auditorium.

As the two subscribers entered, the orchestra burst into the Khedive's March of Salutation. The company rose and offered ceremonious welcome. The premières stepped forward and embraced the hands of the patrons, who promptly retired to the seats assigned them while a prologue was sung. Its interpretation may sound euphemistic to foreigners: "This is the greatest moment of my life no honor like it has ever been mine- I have never felt so inspired.'

During the song we looked about. Instead of four or five there was a large retinue. Conspicuous among those present present were a picturesque figure in sacking rags, whip in hand; a sheik from the Sudan, a study in blackand-white; innumerable neighbors wrapped in heavy Bedouin burnouses, besides our own tribe.

The curtain rang up on a setting by Omar Ismail, the famous tent-maker of the Mouski. Bakst at his best never produced an atmosphere at once so simple and complete, so colorful yet so restrained. The brazier lighting-system in vogue here was supplemented on this occasion by the usual Jones touch: one half-burned candle skillfully placed to play upon the hem of the star's trailing calico Mother Hubbard.

The danseuse was a lady whose figure outweighed the fair Turkish Delight of Cairo's White Way by several hundred. Her costume had evidently been partially executed by the Egyptian agent of Jaeger and Company. And our conjecture as to the depreciation of Austrian currency was confirmed: a point that has been overlooked by the international financiers all the gold currency of that country now hangs on the breasts, arms, and ankles of the yashmaked and unyashmaked ladies of Egypt.

cles, and we now understood the pride in each added pound, and why obesity is considered a distinguishing mark of beauty. Just as with us, the popularity of the toe dancer is measured by her skill in executing intricate pas-de-ballet, so here these coryphées display sensuous emotions through the movement of each muscular fibre. From head to toe, independently and with coördinated skill, every one of the tissues vibrates like an anatomical chart controlled by electricity. This muscular virtuosity was continued amid the approving Ah-a-a-h's and Allah's of the audience.

The danseuse resumed her seat, snatched a cigarette from the mouth of the tabla-player and joined the chorus, lustily singing one of the popular airs of the day. The performance grew more and more informal and flowed from song into dance, from ballad into songand-dance. The tabla always set the rhythm, reënforced by the hand-clapping of the audience; the penetrating falsetto of the men carried the melody, the sofara added the melodic counterpoint, and the women supplied both rhythm and movement and often the melody as well. This gave the effect at times of a symphony orchestra rehearsing ultra-modern discords, and we gasped with amazement when all ended the coda simultaneously. Instead of being as we had imagined— an independent solo by each performer, to them it was a familiar harmonic composition.

We must not forget one of the most important and original orchestral effects which we strongly recommend to all our friends of the baton. Comrades all, do not bemoan your empty bottles; a most æsthetic use can be made of them, to add color to the harmonic and pictorial effect of production. Like some other Little Theatre

Our dancer began to tune her mus. colleagues, these artists of the desert

do not confine their art to one medium but are able to express themselves with equal ease in movement, melody, or acrobatics. This was next demonstrated. A dark powerful creature, who up to this point had been as remote a member of the orchestra as the tympanaplayer, sprang into the centre of the stage and captured most of the laurels of the evening by his amazing feats. Snatching off his galabya or outer garment, he stood transformed—a gorgeous figure in the ravishing Egyptian parallel of the B. V. D.

Dexterously capturing Sardi's kufieh from his unsuspecting head and twisting it round his own waist, the transformation from orchestral player to dancer was complete. Steel blades glistened in his hand and became the dramatic motif of a wild Syrian dance. Brandished in every direction, now here, now there, sometimes perilously near the audience, they vied with his eyes in their passionate fervor, while the body moved in vigorous rhythmic contortions. This thrilling exhibition reached its climax in an orgy of pantomimed self-mutilation, but was only prevented from reaching a still greater height by the inartistic sensibilities of the western audience who, satisfied with this symbolic rendering, refused to accept the more realistic conclusion, with flowing blood.

This was merely a prelude to the divertissement. . . . There was no suggestion of the usual effete Occidental or Oriental effeminacy about this dancer and his pas seul.

Dark hair in confused masses, eyes gleaming, he sprang into another mood. He snatched up two incongruous chairs, setting them one on top of another and both crowning a table. Still with no interruption of the rhythm of feet and body, he grasped the edge of the table in his teeth, and lifted it and

its burden upwards with the nonchalance of a Spanish dancer toying with a lighted cigarette. Tossing these properties aside, he next grasped our young Mohammed, who was gazing with bated breath, and swung him lightly through the air.

This was too insignificant a test of strength and skill; so he challenged the strong man of our Machmud tribe, and the powers of these Titans were transformed into the figures of a wrestling dance, amid the wild acclamation of the audience. The opposing tribes now applauded with the enthusiasm of a football match, but were never carried beyond the rhythmic beats set by the orchestra.

When two-thirty arrived and the performance was still at its height, we realized that even we, accustomed to midnight hours, could not compete with the inexhaustible flow of the repertoire of this Theatre of the Desert. We apologetically rose to leave. This proved to be the signal for another motif. The première stood also, swaying toward us, the orchestra playing with greater fervor. She placed a hand on either of our shoulders and with irresistibly insinuating movements challenged our waning endurance still further. We found ourselves in the centre of this swaying, beating, singing, cheering, swarthy company. Round and round, on and on we turned, in what was probably a pathetic imitation of her movements, until we found ourselves near the open tent-flap and fairly reeled from it into the quiet calm of the night. Our desert players still shouting to us, 'Quies chales,' - 'better than the best,' and we in turn, panting for breath, 'Vive le Théâtre! Vive l'Arabi!' we retired to our sleeping-tent. The morning stars had come and gone, but our guests were still lost in the enchantment of their fantasia.

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JONAH

BY W. O. STODDARD, JR.

"THERE is no God. There is no Heaven. There is no Hell. There is only ignorance.' The speaker stood on a soap box on the east side of Madison Square. He was short of stature, medium weight; the face was round, with the forehead low and projecting. He was past middle age but not old. His eyes were black as was his hair, which he wore after the manner of an impresario. The accent, though faint, suggested Southern Europe.

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His constantly shifting audience gave him but casual attention. New Yorkers will stop to look at, to listen to almost nothing. Down in their hearts is the country general-store-and-postoffice habit, though they pride themselves on their cosmopolitanism. There were messenger boys, there was a policeman, there were taxi-drivers, there were real business men, there were loafers, there were foreign- and nativeborn. There was also a tall man who looked the stranger even in so motley a group. He did not belong. He was from the country; that much was evident to any New Yorker. Therefore he was queer and to be smiled upon. He wore a squarish goatee that also was provocative of laughter; but there were little tufts of hair protruding from his ears and that was something to call forth a fullthroated laugh. However, no one had laughed as yet for there was a dignity about the rustic that gave pause. Dressed for the part he might have posed for the standardized caricature of Uncle Sam. However he wore a

slouch hat; a rough tan suit, and his face though kindly did not invite familiarity. The hair was gray and black, the eyes gray, the nose Roman, and the mouth wide and firm. He was listening intently to the foreign orator. His first sensation had been shock, surprise, and pain. Then came confusion of mind and doubt as to the sincerity of the speaker. Presently resistance began to assemble within him and he edged nearer to the soap box, listening, waiting-a born fighter from a land of fighting men.

The orator was gaining headway and he had caught his audience. They were listening. 'And as for Jonah, nobody, not even your church-going hypocrites themselves, believe in Jonah —

'I believe in Jonah.' It was the tall man with the square goatee. Ah, this was going to be good. A sensation at last. Hush, let the old boy have his way. Look at him. He does n't need a soap box to stand on. Watch him wag his head.

'Shut up, you fool,' snapped the orator. 'When I finish you can have your say, if anybody will listen to a man who believes in Jonah. As I was saying—'

'I believe in Jonah.' It was a voice not to be hushed. The soap-box orator glowered his hate but the believer in Jonah rolled on. 'I reckon yo'-all are men an' I reckon I'm one. Jonah was a pesky mean cuss jes like we-all. God give Jonah a job. He said "Go to Nineveh an' tell 'em they 're hell-bent, an' if they don't quit in fo'ty days or less I'll wipe 'em off the slate an' that's

that." The speaker paused. The soapbox orator opened his mouth as though to recapture his lecture, but the crowd had forgotten him. Here was something new. 'Go on Whiskers!' called a voice, while other voices echoed,' Go on.'

'Did Jonah obey orders? I'll say he did not. He piked it for Joppa, bought a ferry-ticket for Tarshish, tryin' to lose Jehovah, but that's where he smashed his molasses jug. Yo'-all can't sidestep God that away. Jehovah jest messed up them waves till the old tub lay over on her beams' ends, an' was like to bust in two. The sailors lost their nerve an' chucked over everything that was n't nailed down. Presently they came to Jonah, who was sleepin' comfortable-like down in the hold. The captain give him a call-down and told him to git busy an' pray his god an' see if it would do any good. Everybody had his own particular god them days.

'Nothin' doin', an' the storm gittin' worse every minute. Them heathen had to blame somebody-so they throwed dice an' lit on Jonah.

'Jonah knew he was a quitter an' made no bones about it. Fact is he stood up for his god like a man. The sailors liked that and asked him what to do, and Jonah braced up an' says "chuck me overboard an' the sea will flatten out." Just the same them sailors rowed for all there was in it, tryin' to make the shore. Nothin' doin'. Then they prayed to Jonah's god. Nothin' doin'. Then they chucked Jonah overboard, an' they did n't like the job either. Then the sea flattened out into a calm, an' the sailors admitted as how Jonah had a regular god. 'But God were n't through with Jonah yet. Yo'-all can't beat out God by jest kickin' off. There's more to it yet. A fish comes along with a mouth like a cellar door. Open an' shut; an' Jonah had a reservation for three days an' three nights.'

'Listen to that!' screeched the soapbox orator.

'Go on, go on,' yelled the crowd. 'Friends,' said the southern farmer, 'yo'-all can see what I am. I ain't got enough theology about me to fill a toad's pocket-book, but they's somethin' so darn human about this here Jonah I can't stand no reflections on his character, a-tall. In fact, he's jest like me an' maybe like you, I don't know. An' here's this fish that come along so opportune. I don't know about that fish an' I don't care; the only thing I do understand is Jonah, an' that's because he's so tarnal human. Look here, now, look at this Jonah, down an' out. What's he do? Cries to God jest like you an' me. God gives him a chance to do somethin' worthwhile. Jonah chucks the job an' then, first minute he's in trouble, he calls on his god. I done the same, mebby yo'-all can remember somethin' like it. What's Jonah say? He's down, way down, death would look good to him but he can't die. He's lost his chance an' he's a failure in his own eyes. He's down an' can't raise himself out o' it all. But he calls on his god an' tells him where he is down there on the bottom of the mountains under the sea among the weeds, under the bars o' the world and lost forever. An' look here! Jonah's prayer came into the holy temple right befo' Jehovah; an' Jehovah saw it, and Jehovah spoke to the fish, an' it lifted Jonah up, up from the black hole at the bottom o' the sea where we all git, an' let him out on dry land. As I said befo' I ain't no theologian, an' I don't know a thing about big fish an' not much about little fish. All I know is Jonah. He's so darn human.

'Now here's Jonah on dry land ag'in. What next? First, what's Jehovah goin' do, an' second, what's Jonah goin' do? First Jehovah gives Jonah a second chance. That's what we all

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