that do not rest and that work in silence. For they speak song to our hearts, and their care is to sow the seed of its beauty there...

The chorus at the radio station is a harmony of voices that set the word to music and render the melody faithfully; and what does it matter if a voice grows too big for it and bids it farewell one day, to go warbling in the world of song — the chorus is the school of the artist, and it is enough that Fairuz is its graduate!

And before her, and after her, many women and many men.

I said to Karawan: You sing as a soloist, and you insist on remaining one of the chorus girls? How little she liked my question! She cannot bear to hear anyone touch her school with a single word. These years of her life she has passed in its company, from the day the chorus was a puny thing whose function was to repeat meaningless "ahs," until it became a strong body that must be reckoned with most seriously in the morrow of music. With it Karawan grew up, singing the muwashshah, the qasida, the popular song, and the dance song. She said: I love singing and I adore my home — and enough.

And she cut off my road with that "enough." I know perfectly well that Karawan's decision is not to be overturned; she is firm of opinion for all her calm and the simplicity of her appearance.

When Souad Hashem enters, perfume scatters about her; her elegance is Parisian and her dreams American. It was as though I had leveled a grave charge at her when I asked about her readiness for the silver screen... No! I am not preparing myself to become a movie star; it is enough for me to be a radio star. I smiled, and Souad realized I was not convinced — the more so as I know she has practiced

stage acting. She said: But that does not mean I would refuse good opportunities; I leave the matter to circumstances. Three years ago singing had not yet entered my world — and today I am a singer!

Souad sings with the chorus, and she is proud and happy in the company of these girls who, all together with their brother young men, make up the Radio Chorus.

Amal Ilya loves to fill every minute of her day — good Lord, how she prizes the meaning of time! She does her work in the studio with great ardor, and in the rest periods she reads and knits wool... I asked her age, and for the first time in my life I heard a woman

tell the truth: between twenty-nine and thirty! She knows no grim seriousness; her life is a strange, laughing tale. She is the heroine of Philemon Wehbe's comic sketches, and before that she acted on the stage... Her singing goes with the chorus — and how hard it would be for the two to part... a many-colored encyclopedia holding the old theatrical song.

The latest and newest element is Najla Kayyal; her road is long and her dreams are sweet, golden like her hair.

And after all this, the morrow of music holds ready for the chorus a great summit for it to be seated upon.

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