Mrs. Cultus’ finished production proved to be in a style quite unique, what might be called demi-semi-official or colloquial-realistic, with “side tags” to inform the Club in what direction the region might be further “explored.” Of course her full text became part of the archives of the Society, but her opening and closing sentences were in this case so brilliant that the world at large should really have the benefit of their luminosity. No expert in the modern school of English composition had greater appreciation than Mrs. Cultus of the real value of an opening sentence to attract attention in the right direction. What she fired off at the Amateurs’ Topographical thus began:
“We are supposed to be in Europe, en route from America to Asia; as a matter of fact we are in Africa, just across the way. I write from the Café Maure, in order to get the flavor of the place.” With her literary feet thus planted on four continents at once, why, of course the Club knew precisely where she stood, and obtained a glimpse of the habits and customs of the population, also of Mrs. Cultus in particular. Her closing sentence was also a masterpiece, this time of imagery and charming retrospection, all carefully led up to by a vivid description of the Zok or market place; introducing a group of snake-charmers at work charming, fascinating to watch, especially fascinating when the charmers, accompanied by tom-toms and a sana (tambourine), appeared to eat the snakes.
“It was diabolical,” wrote Mrs. Cultus; “I fled, and called the others to escape fascination also. We had enough of the Zok and snakes. Unfortunately, camels were in our way. I had nothing but my parasol to keep the beasts off. No doubt they too had been fascinated by the snakes, for a hubbub arose which completely demoralized the dromedaries. A camel with both humps up and rear legs in the air and his front legs helping him to scream is calculated to make one leave his vicinity unceremoniously. We did, we made our exit—sans ceremonie—as I have the profound honor of now doing at the end of this report.”
And the Society sent her a note of appreciation later on for the sincere observation and vivid realism displayed in her graphic report—noblesse oblige.
But in the meantime, while the report was on its way home, Mrs. Cultus, when thinking it over, seemed not quite sure as to its effect, in fact rather worried.
“I know,” said she, “that my style embodies that happy medium between dignity and frivolity which is sure to take at the Club, but, oh, just suppose somebody has described Tangiers before!”
Miss Winchester overheard this terrible conjecture with the keen interest of a real member of the literary craft, and naturally came to the rescue of Mrs. Cultus, who was yet a novice.
“Tangiers!—sung about before? Not more frequently than some other good songs.”
“What song are you talking about, Frank? I sang no song.”
“‘Thou art like unto a flower, O Tangiers! so pure, so white,’ et cetera. A Morocco rose by any other name will always smell as sweet.”