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as he pulled his bow. Once or twice he had hoped- 'But she's a world'y woman and they ain't nary a glim o' hope now that I 've got religion,' he growled to himself as his long fingers stripped the corn to the ground. 'But I got a good farm and all, and ifif everything had turnt out all right, mebbe, we'd a- ' He snapped the tie around his handful of fodder, slammed it on a stalk, and went on stripping the next.

The afternoon wore on, and he was more and more tormented by the vision of the dance. 'I don't reckon she 's called it off,' he mused after a while. 'She'll git old Eph Slocumb and his boy to play. And what can they do making music fer a gal lak her?' In his misery he went to the spring in the hollow for a drink.

Aunt Margaret had an early supper, for she had to go down the road to pray over a sick child. She asked him to go with her, but he said he was feeling too tired. And in the dusk he watched her drive off down the lane. He leaned on the yard-fence gate and looked at the bats flying around the barn. A late whippoorwill was singing in a thicket. He turned and gazed at the dark and empty house.

'I jest cain't stand this here life much longer and that's a fact,' he mumbled wretchedly. And then heard a noise behind him. Turning around, he found Sam standing beside the fence. He felt like embracing him, but all he did was to wrench off a paling and let it fall to the ground. After a moment he called out, 'Hi, Sam.' 'Hi, Tim. How you come on?' 'Middling, middling. How you standing the weather?'

'Not much, I mought say, and ag'in I mought n't,' Sam answered, leaning back against the fence and looking straight before him.

Suddenly Tim lifted up his nostrils

and drew in a deep breath. A sweet tantalizing odor made him gasp. He bent toward Sam and then drew away. His hands fell limply to his side, and a wave of peace and joy swept over him. Sam had his jaw full of tobacco. Tim clung to the fence without saying a word, but in his mind ran a sort of singing, 'Sam has fell, Sam has fell from grace!'

'Tim,' Sam went on presently, 'have you been tempted much to go back to the old life since I seed you last?' He spoke still staring before him.

'What you mean, Sam?' Tim replied cautiously.

'Well, to make a long story short, I've slid back.'

"You have!'

away,

'Yeh, but I don't want to cause you to fall.' He looked Tim straight in the face. A whiff of tobacco-juice caught him full in the nose. Sam turned spat slyly off to the left, and went on. 'I was over in Lillington to-day, Tim, and who should I see there but Molly O'Quinn.' He waited, but Tim said nothing. 'And, Tim, she ain't got nobody to play fer her to-night.' He waited again, but still Tim made no answer. 'I did n't mean to go back to evil ways, Tim, but Providence must a-had a hand in it. While we was talking there in the street to-day, up come Ed Slocumb and said he had the banjo there with him, and I could take it. And he run and brung it 'fore I could say a word. But mebbe it would n't a-made so much difference if me 'n' Maisie had n't had a bad busting up last night. Yeh, I 'd a-helt out then, I believe; but right after Ed crammed the banjo in my hands, Molly dropt a package, and out rolled-what you reckon?-a long plug o' Brown Mule. I picked it up fer her, and she axed me to smell it and see if it was the reg'lar kind her pa chewed. And then

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she told me to take a chew and try it and keep the plug, fer the old man had more' n he needed. Somehow the way she axed me and the way she looked at me with them dark eyes o' hern you know how she looks, I reckon, if anybody does. Well, in two minutes, anyhow, I was in my buggy with the banjo under the seat and my mouth full o' Brown Mule, on my way here to git you. She sent me special fer you. And here' reaching in his pocket and pulling out a ragged plug-'is what I ain't chewed.'

Tim's long hand shot out and raised the tobacco to his mouth. Then he lowered it without taking a chew.

"Tim, I don't want to tempt you,' Sam hurried into saying; 'but you see I done give up my hope fer redemption. You reckon they ain't no chance of our going over and playing fer Molly? And you know, Tim, she 's sorter sot on you. I tell you I cain't stand no more o' this way o' living.' But Tim was silent, holding the tobacco in his trembling hand. 'And, Tim,' Sam began again, 'you 'n' me 's allus pulled together. I don't mind running the risk o' being lost if you don't.'

'I don't mind, nuther!' Tim burst out, and he quickly crammed the end of the plug into his starving jaws. There was a ripping sound, and sound, and a sheepish grin began to spread over his face. When he had settled the quid in its accustomed place, he spoke up. 'Sam, I'm lak you. This life ain't fer me. Another week of it and I 'd been crazy as a loon.' He spat a great stream. 'God did n't seem to have no notion o' taking away my taste.'

'Mine, nuther,' Sam answered happily. 'And, Tim, you 'n' me need n't feel so bad after all. Muh and pap ain't half as keen 'bout their religion since that preacher got out'n the neighborhood. And I bet you a dollar yer Aunt Marg'ret won't be in a month or so.'

'Mebbe not,' Tim rejoined absently. 'But we need n't worry 'bout that now.'

'No, we need n't,' Sam agreed. 'But le's be moving. I got my mule and buggy tied there in the woods. Git on yer duds in a hurry. I seed Aunt Marg'ret go down the road, and we want to be gone 'fore she comes back.'

Tim ran into the house to dress. Soon he reappeared, and they hurried with a shovel to the woods. The full moon had risen, and again he felt the joy of the earth slide into his soul. As they stood under the holly tree, he looked at the patterns and splotches on the ground and turned to Sam, 'Ain't all this here a purty sight?' he said.

'Yeh,' Sam grunted, scratching the leaves from the grave.

Presently they had the fiddle out. And in the moonlight Tim held it tightly to him. All the while they were chewing and spitting around them in great profusion.

'Sound as a dollar!' said Tim, twanging the strings.

At the edge of the woods they untied the mule, clambered into the buggy, and were off.

'Well, we 're set fer the Devil, I reckon,' Sam declared joyously, as they turned the lane into the big road, 'and we mought as well let folks know it.' Thereupon he rolled his tobacco in his jaw and lifted up his voice in their favorite ballad. After a cough of hesitation, Tim joined in with his high tenor. Over the moonlit fields went their song. It rose and wavered under the moon, hung a moment, and then echoed against the creek hills.

'I got a gal lives in the hollow.
Ti-yiddy-yum-yum-yiddy-yum-ya.
She won't come and I won't follow.
Ti-yiddy-yum-yum-yiddy-yum-ya.'

And the people of Little Bethel heard them passing and said, 'Sam and Tim's at it ag'in. They 've backslid.'

THE LITTLE THEATRE IN EGYPT

BY ALICE AND IRENE LEWISOHN

I

THE GREAT WHITE WAY OF CAIRO

We sat in a box reserved for European visitors, sipped our Oriental coffee and smoked, while the orchestra was tuning and the audience assembling. Opposite us, the Moslem bourgeoisie deposited their yashmaked harems behind a long screen of Nottingham lace curtain and then seated themselves below with the unveiled ladies of their acquaintance. Below us was the pit where gathered the rank and file of the audience, completely native in tarboosh, kufieh, and galabya. Above us, packed to overflowing, was the gallery, for this was a gala night when Munyra, the idolized singer of ballads, of opera, of lieder, was to appear.

As soon as the curtain rose, we realized that the appeal to the audience was through neither setting nor costuming, but purely through the sentiment of the romance and the personality of the Prima Donna. Harounal-Raschid, in red plush and cotton batting, with beard to match, harangued his grand vizier for many hours in a style reminiscent of the Sicilian marionettes. Our illusions of the romantic beauty associated with the Arabian Nights were shattered by the ladies of the company. Here was no sinuous allure of Theda Bara, but the hearty, motherly figure so popular among the matrons of Grand Street.

Munyra, impersonating a young lover, without any attempt at char

acterization, costume, or make-up, held that audience by sheer force of personality and vocal technique. No gesture but the occasional swing of a rhythm, no pantomime but an occasional apostrophe to the audience, whose thundering acclamations might have startled even Chaliapin. The really sensational moment of the drama came when the two lovers, flying for safety to the cover of the woods, were overcome by the romantic beauty of the moonlit night and lay clasped in one another's arms on the floor, in the middle of a perfectly bare stage; and yet the quiver that ran through the house was as intense as that produced by the most lurid moment of the Jest.

Another example of the complete rapport between performers and audience was an interval of about half an hour, in the middle of a scene, when the curious zither-like instrument had to be tuned to a new song to suit the mood of the Prima Donna. Everything stopped; the actors on the stage patiently waited, the audience sat in anticipatory silence, but at the first note broke into wild enthusiasm. Throughout all, Munyra held the stage with the dignity, repose, and gracious assurance of an Yvette Guilbert, striking the chord with the technique of perfected art. So different, so remote, so curiously exotic to our Western ears but so appealing to her Oriental audi

ence were her vocal acrobatics that at each finale they burst into a transport of enthusiastic 'Ah's' and 'Allah's'clapping, waving, until even a passive sheik was literally swept off his feet in a frenzy of appreciation and, with obvious pantomime, surrendered himself and all he possessed, even his manhood's pride, - his beard, - for just one more note.

We thought that the most enthusiastic moment had come and gone,

II

but when midnight was bringing this lengthy performance to a close another transport swept the audience. Apropos of nothing, Munyra broke into a PanMoslem song. Even the romance of Haroun-al-Raschid was lost in the more stirring emotion of Nationalist feeling; and we left realizing that the dream of self-determination is the vital drama of Egypt to-day and that, beside it, Haroun-al-Raschid and Munyra herself become mere illusions.

THE LITTLE THEATRE OF THE NILE

We were still at table with our archæological guests when a flying messenger in red turban and bottle-green uniform announced the opening of the Theatre of the Nile. We hurried to the garden, clutched our warmest coats and furs, and wondered at the courage of the oranges and bouvardia that grew so happily in this chill winter air. Through the gates, on to the river we hurried, and were greeted with unction by Abdul-el-Galeel in his most gorgeous and becoming abáyeh of Mecca weave, while piercing sounds from the theatre indicated that the orchestral overture had begun. We had our first vision of the Theatre of the Nile! Moored at the foot of a steep flight of stone steps was a magical barge, the outlines of the masts patterned with lanterns of multicolored glass. In the bow, cross-legged, sat the orchestra. Two pipe-players looked like musicians in the old Florentine paintings; the drummer behind his great drum which was festively decorated in red trappings — beat with his sticks the march-like rhythm of the Khedive's salutation. Feeling akin to the Caliphs of Bagdad, at the pompous exclusiveness of the entertainment before us, we descended the steps and

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praise be to Allah! — were transported into a moment of romance and fantasy which had at once reality and illusion. This was Theatre- we were both audience and part of the setting. We pushed off from the bank, the galley slaves up forward heaving away in rhythm with the drumbeats. We lay back on the cushions of the flukhah and glided into the starlight night under the curved shifting sail, our master craftsman standing in the stern astride the rudder, the piercing notes gradually beating into our mood with hypnotic insistence. The music grew wilder and more piercing, and a figure rose, scantily clad in a short faded shift. The usual felláheen vest completed the costume, except for the almost black make-up of the delicately modeled limbs. In spite of the utter poverty and bareness of these garments, the moment the movement began the felláheen vanished and became identified with the eternal world of bards and minstrels. The tiny brass cymbals in both hands punctuated the rhythm and play of the marvelously supple wrists. After the first introductory movements of foot- and bodymuscles which seemed like the inevitable tuning-up of a relaxed string

instrument the real dancing began. Feet, body, shoulders, neck, head, each in turn and all together came into play until the great test of skill - the bottle with the lighted candle set on his shaven head was added. Oblivious of the limitations of his stage, which was not more than three feet in diameter and undulated to the caprice of the wind and sails, our entertainer with concentrated intensity flowed from one rhythm to another with the ease and deftness of a master. In the same syncopated rhythm in varied tempos, rising, crouching, bending, swirling, nothing seemed to disturb the poise and equilibrium of the dancer or his charmed 'prop,' which became so much a part of his person that it seemed a jeweled crown.

After the first half-hour of the Marathon of blowing, beating, and muscle-play, which progressed with uninterrupted vigor and passed without a break from one rhythm and melody to another, we recovered from our breathless anxiety over the lung- and heartcapacity of the performers and relapsed into a hypnotic, fatalistic state.

III

And here let us note that, although the melodies are apparently built on a scale not exceeding three intervals, the rhythmic repertoire is so varied, and the vitality and wind-power of the players such, that performances at weddings usually go on unceasingly for twelve hours at a stretch, - day and night, the length of time depending only on the bank account of the bridegroom.

Another hour of the same strident noise which will make Scriabine forever sound to us like the soothing delicacy of Mozart, and our barge was again moored at the garden steps.

Still under the unctuous protection of Abdul, who bowed with his characteristic static smile in aloof satisfaction at our childish enthusiasm, we stepped off the magic carpet.

The fantasia of the night was vanishing down the stream; the lantern lights already dim reflections; the performers, so real a moment ago, now fading into phantoms; the barge, so lately vibrating with reality, now but a memory.

THE LITTLE THEATRE OF SUDAN

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to-be, aged seven moored us near the great dam; but we hurried on, impatient to continue our peripatetic dialogue. We galloped over rugged shores of the cataract, romantically wild and gorge-like, past fields of wild castor-oil bean, until we came to our first Nubian village.

Were we really seeing with our eyes or were we at an exhibition of ultramodern art? Against a ground of white plaster, or ochre, or blue, from the ancient pigment-mines, were displayed the most primitively quaint frescoes. It would be hard to choose the house

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