EGYPT’S MORNING MILK

Evening Star, Issue 19942, 11 August 1928, Page 20

EGYPT’S MORNING MILK

Tbo morning after I took up house in Egypt I was descending the stairway of tho block of fiats in which wo had set up our home when, welling up the shaft, 1 heard a deep and dolorous baaing, and in a moment, round tho corner of the landing appeared two tall, obsequious, taboushed Egyptian gentlemen in spotless white galabiehs, each leading by its starboard ear a Romannosed, wall-eyed she-goat, overwhelmingly odorous (writes 1. K. Connell in the Glasgow ‘Weekly Herald’). “Good morning, mndame,” said tho eldest goat fancier. “ You come yesterday, you name Madame Campbell, yes? You nebber been live Egypt before? That is good. Wc bring you berry best goat milk ebery morning. Four piastre for one litre—what you call two pint. So you get him fresh ebery day wo bring lady goats to youi door. You see we make berry small profit, we , . ” “ Baabaa-beh!” interrupted tho goats. “ Escout, shut up, not maka noise, Fatma. Dis one Fatma, madamo; dis odder one Brincess Mary. We gib you one litre now. You pay nothing. You see. Dis rny son, Mohammed Abdul. Ho bring the ladies ebery day to your bouse. Ho bcrry_ good chap—say him prayers sebben times ebery day.” I question whether I could have escaped or declined tho kind offer under another fifteen minutes had not one of my neighbours appeared—a little Parisienne, the wife of a charming and cultured Bey on the floor above. Dainty as a Ziegfeld dancer, in summery 'Auteui! flowered chiffon, parasol to match, broad crinoline straw hat, dainty high-heeled shoes, and cobwebby stockings, she smiled and extended an exquisitely manicured band. Then, Hashing round on the luckless goat-herds like a tigress, she lashed them in Arabic, of which tontmo I know nothing. “Ishmi! Yallab! Tckerray!” she finished. My dusky milkmen folded their tents and vanished with a wild rustling of robes and patter of cloven hooves. I shall never forget their faces. The goats remained unmoved. Manoeuvring under full steam in crowded waters si'emod to bo among the accomplishments of Fatma and Brincess Mary. “Quelle idee. Ces sales betes. Pouf! If you want to catch typhoid, bubonic, smallpox, enteric, colic, jaundice, ‘gippy lummy,’ or plague, Suliman’s goats will give you any or all of them,” said my neighbour. “Come, I shall take you to a really hygienic dairy where the milk is that of an English dairy herd, pasteurised, and delivered in sealed bottles, and the gentleman who gives us this boon in a benighted land is a Scotty—from near your own homo district, madamo, judging by your accent —Glasgow.’’