“Don’t you remember the only nation in the world where the barber is as good as a king?” I said proudly.
“Oh, Switzerland. Sapristi! Corpo de Bacco!”
Understanding that last remark perfectly, I offer him a cigarette, and say, “No, I am not Swiss.”
“Brazeel?” “Jamais.”
The way that barber rubs the unguent into my hairless scalp and hirsute beard shows that he is a disappointed man.
The next time I visit the shop I receive marked attention. The hands all rise up. They pick up the earth in a Turkish salaam. They distribute it in courtesy to the American minister, whom they have meanwhile discovered. As I have been frequently turned away from the doors of our American Congress after twenty-five years’ service, because I did not act or look like a member, so I was unrecognised here, by the “Oi Barberoi,” as having no national characterisation. America was the last race or people to which this Greek barber assigned me.
Samuel S. Cox.
AT THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY.
“YIS, sur. It’s many a wan av yure countrymin Oi’ve taken over the Causeway, sur.”