Persons of a poetic temperament who find in speculative dreaming pleasure more satisfying than aught they can derive from the study of prosaic reality, usually turn their thoughts towards the East, to the land of mystery and gorgeous imagery, where man first awoke to a wondering contemplation of the phenomena of nature, asking himself what the earth and sky could be, and marking out in bold outline as he gazed into the star-lit firmament the signs by which we to-day recognise the zodiac. Entering these regions of hoary tradition, the marvel-loving wanderer from the West finds his path strewn with relics of our early progenitors; here he may revel in endless variety of legendary lore garnered from rich fields of poetic fancy. Does he wish to learn of the Moslem sage the origin of the weed whose balmy breath From East to West Cheers the tar’s labour, or the Turkman’s rest? Let him listen to his words as he relates how the Prophet, walking in his garden at early dawn, came upon a viper stiff with cold, lying in the grass. ‘Full of compassion, he took it up and warmed it in his bosom; but when the reptile recovered, it bit him. “Why art thou thus ungrateful?” asked the Prophet. The viper answered: “Were I to spare thee, another of thy race would kill me, for there is no gratitude on earth. By Allah, I will bite thee.” “Since thou hast sworn by Allah, keep thy vow,” said the Prophet, and held out his hand to be bitten. But as the reptile bit him, the Prophet sucked the poison from the wound, and spat it on the ground. And lo! there sprang up a plant in which the serpent’s venom is combined with the Prophet’s mercy, and men call it tobacco.’