"By the beard of the Prophet. Oh, Scheherezade, right well hast thou
done," said the Caliph, leaning back and biting off the end of a
three-for.
For one thousand nights Scheherezade No. 2, daughter of the Grand
Vizier, had sat at the feet of the mighty Caliph of the Indies
relating tales that held the court entranced and breathless.
The soft, melodious sound of falling water from the fountain tinkled
pleasantly upon the ear. Slaves sprinkled attar of roses upon the
tessellated floor, and waved jeweled fans of peacock's feathers in the
air. Outside, in the palace gardens the bulbul warbled in the date
trees, the hoodoo flitted among the banyan branches, and the dying
song of the goo-goo floated in upon the breeze from New York.
"And, now, oh, Scheherezade," continued the Caliph, "your contract
calls for one more tale. One thousand have you told unto us, and we
have rejoiced exceedingly at your narrative powers. Your stories are
all new and do not weary us as do the chestnuts of Marshall P. Wilder.
You are quite a peach. But, listen, oh, Daughter of the Moon, and
first cousin to a phonograph, there is one more yet to come. Let it be
one that has never before been related in the Kingdom. If it be thus,
thou shalt have 10,000 gold pieces and a hundred slaves at thy
command, but if it bear whiskers, then shall thy head pay the
forfeit."
The Caliph made a sign, and Mesrour, the executioner, stepped to the
side of Scheherezade. In his dark hand he held a glittering scimeter.
He folded his arms and stood like a statue as the Caliph spoke again.
"Now, oh, Scheherezade, let her go. If it be that thou givest us
something like that tale No. 475, where the Bagdad merchant was found
by his favorite wife at the roof-garden concert, with his typewriter,
or No. 684, where the Cadi of a certain town came home late from the
lodge with his shoes off and stepped upon a tack, all will be well,
but if you work off a Joe Miller on us, verily you get it in the
neck."
Scheherezade took a fresh chew of gum, sat down on one foot and began.
"Oh, mighty Caliph, I have one story that would hold you spellbound. I
call it my 288 story. But I really can not tell it. I--"
"And why not, oh, Scheherezade?"
"Oh, Brother to the Sun, and Private Secretary to the Milky Way, I am
a modest woman, it is too gross, too gross to relate."
Scheherezade covered her face in confusion.
"Speak, I command you," said the Caliph, drawing nearer. "You need not
mind me. I have read Laura Lean Jibbey and Isben. Go on with 288."
"I have said it, oh, Caliph. It is too gross."
The Caliph made a sign: Mesrour, the executioner, whirled his scimeter
through the air and the head of Scheherezade rolled upon the floor.
The Caliph pulled his beard and muttered softly to himself:
"I knew all the time that 288 is two gross, but puns don't go anywhere
in my jurisdiction at present."
(_Houston Daily Post_, Friday morning, November 8, 1895.)