st excursion. It was to Memphis and Sakhara, eighteen
miles in all, and I never had been on a donkey in my life. I am not
afraid of horses, but donkeys are so much like mules. My friends
encouraged me all they could. They said that I would have a donkey-boy
all to myself, that the donkey never went out of a walk, and wound up
by the cheerful assurance that if he did pitch me over his head I
would not have far to fall.

The donkey-boys of the Nile deserve a book all to themselves. Such
craft! Such flattery! Such knowledge of human nature! With unerring
sagacity they discover your nationality and give your donkey names
famous in your own country. Never will an Englishman find himself
astride "Yankee Doodle" or "Uncle Sam," or an American upon "John
Bull." They pick you up in their arms to put you on or take you from
your donkey as if you were a baby. They run beside you holding your
umbrella with one hand, and with the other arm holding you on if you
are timid. Staid, dignified women who teach Sunday-school classes at
home, who would not permit a white manservant to touch them, lean on
their donkey-boys as if they were human balustrades.

My first donkey-boy was an enchanting rascal. He looked like a
handsome bronze statue. My donkey was a pale, drab little beast,
woolly and dejected. He looked as though if you hurled contemptuous
epithets at him for a week they would all fit his case. My companion's
was more jaunty. He had been clipped in patterns. His legs were all
done in hieroglyphics, and he held his ears up while mine trailed his
in the sand.

Nevertheless, I was so deadly afraid of him that I saw my forty-nine
fellow-passengers leave me, one after the other, while I still
hesitated and eyed him suspiciously. Perhaps I never would have
mounted had not Imam, the dragoman, with the frank unceremoniousness
of the East, caught me up in his arms and landed me on my donkey
before I could protest. And in the face of his childish smile of
confidence I could only gasp. We moved off with the majesty of a
funeral procession.

"What's the name of my donkey?" asked my companion.

"Cleveland," came the answer like a flash.

We were enchanted.

"And what's the name of mine?" I asked.

"McKinley!"

Then we shouted. You have no idea how funny it sounded to hear those
two familiar names in such strange surroundings. We nearly tumbled off
in our delight, and so quick are those clever little donkey-boys to
watch your face