Life — December 21, 1916 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

1138 The Story of Mustasha the Barber T has been told, O Prince of Be- lievers, that there lived in a quiet side street of Mahnhahtan the Happy a poor barber called Mustasha. He was sitting one day in his shop, idly watching the flies on the ceiling, when there entered a handsome stran- ger. Mustasha rose to serve him, but the stranger stopped him, saying, “ My name is Itchhazul Beyrum, and I am a barber. Can you give me employ- ment?” Whereupon Mustasha_ re- proached him, saying, “In what evil moment have ye come to me? Verily I do not enough business to keep one poor chair warm.” And he ceased not to reproach him till the stranger said, “Cease to reproach me, for, accept it from me, I am some barber, and I can show you how to get the coin. Let me serve your next caller, and do not wonder at anything that you may hear or see.” “I hear and obey,” said Mus- tasha, and thereupon they sate them- selves and waited for what might occur. Presently there entered to them an old and wealthy merchant, who walked feebly, leaning on his staff.“ This man,” said Mustasha, “is my best cus- tomer, Bedridden Ali. Serve him well.” “ There is no power but Allah, the one, the great,” replied Itchhazul. He then seized the merchant and pushed him into the chair, saying, us never cease Allah (whose name be exalted) for the won- derful weather we are having.” The merchant would have replied, but Itch- hazul filled his mouth with the lather, and said, “ You have tried to shave yourself. It is not done well, as you are too old to have a steady hand.” “Tam ruined!” thought Mustasha. “What is this deficient fortune and evil luck! What hath happened me on this blessed day?” “Your hair is thin and dry, and needs an ointment,” said Itchhazul, “and on the top you are bald as a brass bowl. Allah be praised, ‘the Giants’ win!" Upon which he seized a jar of ill-smelling liquid and poured it over the merchant's head, who gasped for breath as one drowning. SIN KT See: “Tam ruined!" thought Mustasha “On account of your age your face is pale and bloodless, and needs massag- ing,” said Itchhazul, as he slapped and pinched the merchant's face, who would have cried out in pain, but that his words were suffocated beneath the folds of a hot wet towel at that mo- ment. Mustasha was beside himself with vexation. His bosom was contracted, and his mind was perplexed respecting his case. “ Bedridden Ali was my best customer, and I shall never see him ain!” thought he. The merchant now rose, exhausted and panting. He drew from his girdle a well-filled purse and handed it to Mustasha, saying, “ Allah (whose name he exalted) has opened your eyes to the merits of modern methods. I was about to seek a new barber, but you have convinced me that you are as up- to-date as any. May your prosperity increase.” Bedridden Ali then left the shop, and Mustasha embraced Itch- hazul with delight. “The best of it is, they like it!” said Itchhazul. “FYOOTLITE has only a thinking part in the new drama.” “Yes; he is cast in the role of a husband.” Imagination AM Imagination— A marvelous multi-colored drugget that covers the rough-splintered floor of Reality, A haunted chateau, The red Pantheon of Lucifer, A vestibule between Time and Eter- nity. T am Imagination— The North Star of Science, the flam- beau of the Lover, the whirling nebulz of the Poet, The plasma of gods, Puck strapped to the back of Rozi- nante, A fire-runged ladder to a Fourth Di- mension. Tam Imagination— The seigniory of untrammelled in- stincts; a fief of unsanctified dreams; Shakespeare of mental faculties, Golden key of the Bastilles of Logic, Glistering west-dust of an obliterated sun, A sublime and beatified liar, demiurge of Myth and Hope. Benjamin de Casseres.