“First,” said Uncle Goro, “you must cut off the cow’s head, then break the water-pot and take out the head!”

This brilliant suggestion was at once put into practice, the owner of the cow being the only one who was not quite so sure of the exceeding greatness of the wisdom of Uncle Goro. When the deed was accomplished and the head extricated from its awkward position, the old man stood and proudly addressed the assembled crowd who had flocked to hear his words of wisdom. “My beloved children,” said he, “a day will come when your old Uncle Goro will die, and then what will you do when you have no one to settle such difficult matters as these for you? Pray to God that your Uncle Goro may long be spared to advise and counsel you.”

A rather pretty custom exists in Mosul which gives people titles according to their work, or any special characteristics belonging to them. For example, the butcher is called “the father of meat”; the baker, “the father of bread.” In the hospital, when I am giving orders for the diet list, we hardly ever speak of the patients by name, but according to their disease, as “Aboo” (father) liver abscess, “Aboo-mai-abiyud” (father of cataract). One of the assistants in the hospital was named “The Angel of Death” by a poor little girl who was brought to the doctor a mass of burns. It was the duty of this assistant to dress the terrible wounds of the child every day, and though as gentle as a woman, he necessarily pained her a great deal—hence the term “Angel of Death.” The women are designated in the same way as the men, only substituting “mother” for “father,” as “Em haleeb,” milk-woman; “Em saba’ saba’een,” mother of seventy-seven (or centipede), this last simply referring to a girl suffering from hysteria.

This was an interesting case which was in the women’s hospital for some weeks. The patient was a young woman about sixteen years of age. She was under the delusion that she had swallowed a “saba’ saba’een” (a horny centipede, measuring some seven or eight inches, common in Mosul). She declared she could not eat anything, for every time she swallowed, the saba’ saba’een opened its mouth and ate the food just partaken of! She absolutely refused to touch anything of her own accord, so we had to force food down her throat. Two or three women would hold her hands and feet while I fed her with a spoon. As time went on she became worse instead of better, and was always beseeching my husband to operate on her and take out the saba’ saba’een. After a time he consented to give her an anæsthetic and operate. On the day appointed she was taken to the theatre and given a whiff of chloroform, while the doctor made a slight incision in her skin. This was stitched up, and she was shown her wound and assured that the doctor had cut her and found nothing. After this she was much happier, and was soon well enough to leave the hospital.

Women never know their age in Mosul. On dispensary days each woman is required to give her name and age. The first difficulty is over the name. Many do not know their surnames at all. When asked, “What is your father’s name?” they say, “How do I know?” and then add with a laugh, “Say Bint Abdulla” (daughter of a servant of God). Abdulla is often a very convenient name when the parentage is uncertain.

With regard to their age, women are quite hopeless. I have often seen an old lady, bent double with the weight of many years, come into the dispensary.

“Well, mother, how old are you?” I ask her.

“How old am I? How do I know, my daughter?”

“Do you think you are fifteen?”

“Well, I may be.”