It would be interesting to know more of this great Persian ruler,
but history being reticent our chance has gone, unless it should be
the good fortune of some member of Sir STANLEY MAUDE'S expedition,
rummaging in the archives of Baghdad, to come upon new facts.
Meanwhile I offer the name as a terse and snappy one for a Persian
kitten, such as I saw the other day convert several shillings'-worth
of my aunt's Berlin wool (as it is still, I believe, called, in spite
of _The Daily Mail_) into sheer scrap. Knitting however is not what it
was in the early days of the War and the tragedy led to no bloodshed,
my aunt, who has evidently an emulative admiration for Sir ISAAC
NEWTON, merely shaking her finger. But self-control among women
must be on the increase, for in a hotel the other day I overheard a
coffee-room conversation in which two cases were instanced of supreme
heroism under agonising conditions--one being when a butler (an old
and honoured butler too, who had never misconducted himself before)
fainted while carrying round the after-dinner coffee and poured most
of it over the ample shoulders of a dowager. This lady not only
disregarded the pain and the damp, but assisted in bringing the butler
to. The Distinguished Service Order has been given for less than that.
It was either in this hotel or another that I met the Naval officer
among whose duties is the granting or refusing of permits to amateur
photographers in districts where "Dora" does not wish for enemy
cameras. Among the requirements of the form which has to be filled up
is one asking the applicant, in the interests of identification, to
specify any peculiar skin marks. One lady, with a conscientiousness
not excelled by the actor who blacked himself all over to play
_Othello_, stated that she had only an appendicitis scar.
But I am digressing. Where was I? Oh yes, we were discussing that
great Persian, Allirap Asras. Those authorities who think that he was
a predecessor of BAHRAM, the hunter, are wrong, for there was never
any Persian of the name at all. I am sorry to have deceived you, but
you must blame not me but a certain domestic remedy. If one bright
cart, drawn by a mettled steed and dispensing this medicinal beverage
at a penny a glass, will insist upon being outside Westminster Abbey
and another at the top of Cockspur Street every working day of the
week for ever and ever, how can one help sooner or later spelling its
staple product backwards and embroidering a little on the result?
But what I want to know is--who drinks sarsaparilla, anyway?
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Vague Tommy (writing letter)._ "WOT DAY IS IT?"
_Chorus._ "THE FOURTEENTH."
_Tommy._ "WOT MONTH?"
_Chorus._ "OCTOBER."
_Tommy._ "WOT YEAR?"]
* * * * *
"What fine fellows we might have been had we lived in those bygone
times. We too, perhaps, would have influenced history and our
names might have been inscribed in the book of immorality."--_New
Ireland._
We understand now why they call it Sin-Fain.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LAMENTABLE LARCENY IN A BOARDING-HOUSE.]
* * * * *