How well one can imagine their slow swinging pace, unmoved by the shouts and music which would stir a horse's more delicate nerves! Their broad moist noses; their large, liquid eyes, and, doubtless, a certain sense of pride in their "sweet nosegaies," like the pride of the Beast of a Regiment in his badge.

Horses, too, came in for their share of May decorations. It was an old custom to give the waggoner a ribbon for his team at every inn he passed on May-day.

In the last century there was a fixed Maypole near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire, to which the boys made a pilgrimage in procession every May-day with May-gads in their hands. May-gads are white willow wands, peeled, and dressed with cowslips.

There was a fixed Maypole in the Strand for many years—or rather a succession of Maypoles. One, when only four years old, was given to Sir Isaac Newton to make a stand for his telescope, and another seems to have had a narrow escape from being handed over to a less celebrated astronomer, some years later.

The wandering Maypole, with its Queen of the May and her chimney-sweeps, is a modern compound of the village Maypole and May Queen with the May games in which (as in the Christmas festivities) morris-dancers played a part. The May-day morris-dancers, like the Christmas mummers, performed sword-dances and sang appropriate doggerels in costume. The characters represented at one time or another were Maid Marian or the May Queen, Robin Hood or Lord of the May, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, Little John Stokesley, Tom the Piper, Mad Moll and her Husband, Mutch, the Fool and the Hobby Horse. Archery was amongst the May-day sports, especially in the company of Robin Hood. The Summer King and Queen were perhaps the oldest characters. They seem to be identical with the Lord and Lady, and sometimes to have been merged in Robin Hood and Maid Marian.

"Maid Marian fair as ivory bone, Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John."

The King and Queen of May are spoken of in the thirteenth century, but morris-dancing at May-time does not seem to date earlier than Henry VII., and is not so old a custom as the immemorial one of going a-Maying

"To bring the summer home The summer and the May-O!"

This was not confined to young people or to country-folk. Chaucer says that on May-day early "fourth goth al the court, both most and lest, to fetche the flowres fresh, and braunch, and blome," and Henry VIII. kept May-day very orthodoxly in the early years of his reign.

Milkmaids have been connected with May-day customs from an early period. Perhaps because syllabub and cream were the recognized dainties of the festival. In Northumberland a ring used to be dropped into the syllabub and fished for with a ladle. Whoever got it was to be the first married of the party. An odd old custom in Suffolk suggests that the hawthorn was not always ready even for the Old Style May-day. Any farm-servant who could find a branch in full blossom might claim a dish of cream for breakfast. The milkmaids who supplied London and other places used to dress themselves gaily on May-day and go round from house to house performing a dance, and receiving gratuities from their customers. On their heads—instead of a milk-pail—they carried a curious trophy, called the "Milkmaids' Garland," made of silver or pewter jugs, cups, and other pieces of plate, which they borrowed for the occasion, and which shone out of a mass of greenery and flowers. Possibly these were at first the pewter measures with which they served out the milk. The music to which the milkmaids' dance was performed, was the jangling of bells of different tones depending from a round plate of brass mounted upon a Maydecked pole; but a bag-pipe or fiddle was sometimes substituted.

Cream, syllabub, and dainties compounded with milk, belong in England to the May festival. In Germany there is a "May drink" (said to be very nice) made by putting woodruff into white Rhine wine, in the proportion of a handful to a quart. Black currant, balm, or peppermint leaves are sometimes added, and water and sugar.

The milkmaids' place has been completely usurped by the sweeps, who clatter a shovel and broom instead of the old plate and bells, and who seem to have added the popular Jack-in-the-green to the entertainment. Jack-in-the-green's costume is very simple. A wicker-work frame of an extinguisher shape, thickly covered with green, is supported by the man who carries it, and who peeps through a hole left for the purpose. May-day has become the Sweeps' Carnival. Mrs. Montague (whose son is said to have been stolen for a sweep in his childhood, and afterwards found) used to give the sweeps of London a good dinner every May-day, on the lawn before her house in Portman Square.

Another May-day custom is that of the choristers assembling at five o'clock in the morning on the top of the beautiful tower of Magdalen College, Oxford, and ushering in the day with singing. At the same time boys of the city armed with tin trumpets, called "May-horns," assemble beneath the tower, and contribute more sound than harmony to the celebration. Let us hope that it is not strictly a part of the old ceremony, but rather a minor manifestation of "Town and Gown" feeling, that the town boys jeer the choristers, and in return are pelted with rotten eggs. The origin of this special Oxford custom is said to be a requiem which was sung on the tower for the soul of Henry VII., founder of the College. In the villages girls used to carry round May-garlands. The party consisted of four children. Two girls in white dresses and gay ribbons carried the garland, and were followed by a boy and girl called "Lord and Lady," linked together by a white handkerchief, of which each held an end. The Lady carried the purse, and when she received a donation the Lord doffed his cap and kissed her. They sang a doggerel rhyme, and the form in which money was asked was, "Please to handsel the Lord and Lady's purse."

One cannot help thinking that some of our flowers, such as Milkmaids, Lords and Ladies, and Jack-in-the-green Primrose, bear traces of having got their common names at the great flower festival of the year.

In Cornwall boys carried the May-garland, which was adorned with painted birds' eggs. Old custom gave these young rogues the privilege of drenching with water from a bucket any one whom they caught abroad on May-morning without a sprig of May.

Mr. Aubrey says (1686): "At Oxford, the boyes do blow cows' horns all night; and on May-day the young maids of every parish carry about their parish garlands of flowers, which afterwards they hang up in their churches."

A generation or more ago the little boys of Oxford used to blow horns early on May-day—as they said—"to call up the old maids." There was once a custom in Lynn for the workhouse children to be allowed to go out with horns and garlands every May-day, after which a certain worthy gentleman gave them a good dinner.

In Cambridgeshire, within the present century, the children had a doll dressed as the "May Lady," before which they set a table with wine and food on it; they also begged money and garlands for "the poor May Lady."

There are some quaint superstitions connected with May-day and May-blossom. To bathe the face in the dew of a May morning was reckoned an infallible recipe for a good complexion. A bath of May dew was also supposed to strengthen weakly children. Girls divined for dreams of their future husbands with a sprig of hawthorn gathered before dusk on May-eve, and carried home in the mouth without speaking. Hawthorn rods were used at all seasons of the year to divine for water and minerals. Bunches of May fastened against houses were supposed to keep away witches and venomous reptiles, and to bring prosperity in various shapes.

The Irish of the neighbourhood of Killarney have a pretty superstition that on May-day the O'Donoghue, a popular prince of by-gone days, returns from the land of Immortal Youth beneath the water to bless the country over which he once ruled.

Some curious customs among the Scotch Highlanders (who call May 1st Beltan Day) have nothing in common with our Green Festival except as celebrating the Spring. They seem to be the remains of very ancient heathen sacrifices to Baal. They were performed by the herdsmen of the district, and included an open-air feast of cakes and custard, to which every one contributed, and which was cooked upon a fire on a turf left in the centre of a square trench which had been dug for the purpose. Some custard was poured out by way of libation. Every one then took a cake of oatmeal, on which nine knobs had been pinched up before baking, and turning his face to the fire threw the knobs over his shoulder, some as offerings to the supposed guardians of the flock, and the rest in propitiation of beasts and birds of prey, with the form "This to thee, O Fox! spare my lambs! This to thee, O hooded Crow!" &c. In some places the boys of the hamlet met on the moors for a similar feast, but the turf table was round, and the oatcake divided into bits, one of which was blackened with charcoal. These being drawn from a bonnet, the holder of the black bit was held devoted to Baal, and had to leap three times over the bonfire.

I do not know of any children's games that were peculiar to May-day. In France they had a May-day game called Sans-vert. Those who played had to wear leaves of the hornbeam-tree, and these were to be kept fresh, under penalty of a fine. The chief object of the players was to surprise each other without the proper leaves, or with faded specimens.

A stupid old English custom of making fools of your friends on the 1st of May as well as on the 1st of April hardly deserves the title of a game. The victims were called "May goslings."

One certainly would not expect to meet with anything like "Aunt Sally" among May-day games, especially with the "May Lady" for butt! But not the least curious part of a very curious account of May-day in Huntingdonshire, which was sent to Notes and Queries some years ago, is the pelting of the May Lady as a final ceremony of the festival. The May-garlands carried round in Huntingdonshire villages appear to have been more like the "milkmaids' garland" than genuine wreaths. They were four to five feet high, extinguisher-shaped, with every kind of spring flower in the apex, and with ribbons and gay kerchiefs hanging down from the base, by the round rim of which the garland was carried; the flower-peak towering above, and the gay streamers depending below. Against this erection (not unlike the "mistletoe boughs" of the North of England) was fastened a gaily-dressed doll. The bearers were two little girls, who acted as maids of honour to the May Queen. Mr. Cuthbert Bede describes her Majesty as he saw her twenty years ago. She wore a white frock, and a bonnet with a white veil. A wreath of real flowers lay on the bonnet. She carried a pocket-handkerchief bag and a parasol (the latter being regarded as a special mark of dignity). An "Odd Fellows'" ribbon and badge completed her costume. The maids of honour bore the garland after her, whose peak was crowned with "tulips, anemones, cowslips, kingcups, meadow-orchis, wall-flower, primrose, crown-imperial, lilac, laburnum," and "other bright flowers." Votive offerings were dropped into the pocket-handkerchief bag, and with these a feast was provided for the children. If the gifts had been liberal, "goodies" were proportionately plentiful. Finally, the May-garland was suspended from a rope hung across the village street, and the children pelted the May-doll with balls provided for the occasion. Their chief aim was to hit her nose.

Another correspondent of Notes and Queries speaks of ropes with dolls suspended from them as being stretched across every village street in Huntingdonshire on May-day, and adds, that not only ribbons and flowers were attached to these swinging May Ladies, but articles of every description, including "candlesticks, snuffers, spoons, and forks."

There are no May carols rivalling those of Christmas, and the verses which children sing with their garlands are very bald as a rule.

A Maypole song of the Gloucestershire children would do very well to dance to—

"Round the Maypole, trit-trit-trot! See what a Maypole we have got; Fine and gay, Trip away, Happy is our New May-day."

I have read of a pretty old Italian custom for the friends of prisoners to assemble outside the prison walls on May-day and join with them in songs. They are also said to have permission to have a May-day feast with them.

Under all its various shapes, and however adapted to the service of particular heathen deities, or to very rude social festivity, the root of the May-day festival lies in the expression of feelings both natural and right. Thankfulness for the return of Spring, anxiety for the coming harvests of the fruits of the earth, and that sense of exhilaration and hopefulness which the most exquisite of seasons naturally brings—brings more strongly perhaps in the youth of a nation, in those earlier stages of civilization when men are very dependent upon the weather, and upon the produce of their own particular neighbourhood—brings most strongly of all to one's own youth, to the light heart, the industrious fancy, the uncorrupted taste of childhood.

May-day seems to me so essentially a children's festival, that I think it is a great pity that English children should allow it to fall into disuse. One certainly does not love flowers less as one grows up, but they are more like persons, and their ways are more mysterious to one in childhood. The cares of grown-up life, too, are not of the kind from which we can easily get a whole holiday. We should do well to try oftener than we do. Wreaths do not become us, and we have allowed our joints to grow too stiff for Maypole dancing. But we who used to sigh for whole holidays can give them! We can prepare the cakes and cream, and provide ribbons for the Maypole, and show how garlands were made in our young days. We are very grateful for wild-flowers for the drawing-room. To say the truth, they last longer with us than with the children, and perhaps we combine the delicate hues of spring, and lighten our nosegays by grass and sword-flags and rushes with more cunning fingers than those of the little ones who gathered them.

For these is reserved the real bloom of May-day! And the orthodox customs are so various, that families of any size or age may pick and choose. One brother and sister can be Lord and Lady of the May. One sister among many brothers must be May Queen without opposition. Those of the party most apt to catch cold in the treacherous sunshine and damp winds of spring should certainly represent the Winter Queen and her attendants, in the warmest possible clothing and the thickest of boots. The morning air will then probably only do them a great deal of good. It is not desirable to dig up the hawthorn-trees, or to try to do so, even with wooden spades. The votive offering of flowers for her drawing-room should undoubtedly await Mamma when she comes down to breakfast, and I heartily wish her as abundant a variety as Mr. Cuthbert Bede saw on the Huntingdonshire garland. That Nurse should have a bunch of May is only her due; and of course the nursery must be decorated. Long strips of coloured calico form good ribbons for the Maypole. Bows and arrows are easily made. It is also easy to cut one's fingers in notching the arrows. When you are tired of dancing, you can be Robin Hood's merry men, and shoot. When all the arrows are lost, and you have begun to quarrel about the target, it will be well to hang up an old doll and throw balls at her nose. Dressing-up is, at any time, a delightful amusement, and there is a large choice among May-day characters. No wardrobe can fail to provide the perfectly optional costumes of Mad Moll and her husband. There are generally some children who never will learn their parts, and who go astray from every pre-arranged plan. By any two such the last-named characters should be represented. In these, as in all children's games, "the more the merrier"; and as there is no limit to the number of sweeps, the largest of families may revel in burnt cork, even if dust-pans in proportion fail. If a bonfire is more appropriate to the weather than a Maypole, we have the comfort of feeling that it is equally correct.

It is hardly needful to impress upon the boys what vigour the blowing of horns and penny trumpets will impart to the ceremonies; but they may require to be reminded that Eton men in old days were only allowed to go a-Maying on condition that they did not wet their feet!

Above all, out-door May Fun is no fun unless the weather is fine; and I hope this little paper will show that if the 1st of May is chilly, and the flowers are backward, nothing can be more proper than to keep our feast on the 12th of May—May-day, Old Style. If the Clerk of the Weather Office is unkind on both these days, give up out-door fun at once, and prepare for a fancy-ball in the nursery; all the guests to be dressed as May-day characters. Garland-making and country expeditions can then be deferred till Midsummer-day. It is not very long to wait, and penny trumpets do not spoil with keeping.

But do not be defrauded of at least one early ramble in the woods and fields. It is well, in the impressionable season of life, to realize, if only occasionally, how much of the sweetest air, the brightest and best hours of the day, people spend in bed. Any one who goes out every day before breakfast knows how very seldom he is kept in by bad weather. For one day when it rains very early there are three or four when it rains later. But we wait till the world has got dirty, and the air full of the smoke of thousands of breakfasts, and clouds are beginning to gather, and then we say England has a horrible climate. I do not believe in many quack medical prescriptions, but I have the firmest faith in May dew as a wash for the complexion. Any morning dew is nearly as efficacious if it is gathered in warm clothes, thick boots, and at a sufficient distance from home.

There are some households in which there are no children, and there are some in which the good things of this life are very abundant. To these it may not be very impertinent to suggest a remembrance of the old alderman of Lynn's kindly benefaction. To beg leave for the children of the workhouse to gather May-day nosegays for you, and to give them a May feast afterwards, would be to give pleasure of a kind in which such unhomely lives are most deficient. A country ramble "with an object," and the grace-in-memory of a traditionary holiday and feast, shared in common with many homes and with other children.

To go a-Maying "to fetche the flowres fresh" is indeed the best part of the whole affair.

But, when the sunny bank under the hedge is pale with primroses, when dog-violets spread a mauve carpet over clearings in the little wood, if cowslips be plentiful though oxslips are few, and rare orchids bless the bogs of our locality, pushing strange insect heads, through beds of Drosera bathed in perpetual dew—then, dear children, restrain the natural impulse to grub everything up and take the whole flora of the neighbourhood home in your pinafores. In the first place, you can't. In the second place, it would be very hard on other people if you could. Cull skilfully, tenderly, unselfishly, and remember what my mother used to say to me and my brothers and sisters when we were "collecting" anything, from fresh-water algae to violet roots for our very own gardens, "Leave some for the Naiads and Dryads."



IN MEMORIUM, MARGARET GATTY

In Memoriam.

MARGARET,

[Daughter of the Rev. Alexander John Scott, D.D.]

(LORD NELSON'S CHAPLAIN, AND THE FRIEND IN WHOSE ARMS HE DIED AT TRAFALGAR),

was Born June 3rd, 1809.

In 1839 she was Married to the Rev. Alfred Gatty,

OF ECCLESFIELD, YORKSHIRE,

where she Died on October the 4th, 1873, aged 64.

My mother became editor of Aunt Judy's Magazine in May 1866. It was named after one of her most popular books—Aunt Judy's Tales; and Aunt Judy became a name for herself with her numerous child-correspondents.

The ordinary work of editorship was heavily increased by her kindness to tyro authors, and to children in want of everything, from advice on a life-vocation to old foreign postage stamps. No consideration of the value of her own time could induce her to deal summarily with what one may call her magazine children, and her correspondents were of all ages and acquirements, from nursery aspirants barely beyond pothooks to such writers as the author of A Family Man for Six Days, and other charming Australian reminiscences, who still calls her his "literary godmother."

The peculiar relation in which she stood to so many of the readers of Aunt Judy has been urged upon me as a reason for telling them something more about her than that she is dead and gone, especially as by her peremptory wish no larger record of her life will ever be made public. I need hardly disclaim any thought of expressing an opinion on her natural powers, or the value of those labours from which she rests; but whatever of good there was in them she devoted with real affectionate interest to the service of a much larger circle of children than of those who now stand desolate before her empty chair. And those whom she has so long taught have, perhaps, some claim upon the lessons of her good example.

Most well-loved pursuits, perhaps most good habits of our lives, owe their origin to our being stirred at one time or another to the imitation of some one better, or better gifted than ourselves. We can remember dates at which we began to copy what our present friends may fancy to be innate peculiarities of our own character. The conviction of this truth, and of the strong influence which little details of lives we admire have in forming our characters in childhood, persuade me to the hard task of writing at all of my dear mother, and guide me in choosing those of the things that we remember about her which may help her magazine children on matters about which they have oftenest asked her counsel.

Many of her own innumerable hobbies had such origins, I know. The influence of German literature on some of her writings is very obvious, and this most favourite study sprang chiefly from a very early fit of hero-worship for Elizabeth Smith, whose precocious and unusual acquirements she was stirred to emulate, and whose enthusiasm for Klopstock she caught. The fly-leaf of her copy of the Smith Remains bears (in her handwriting) the date 1820, with her name as Meta Scott; a form of her own Christian name which she probably adopted in honour of Margaretta—or Meta—Klopstock, and by which she was well known to friends of her youth.

She often told us, too, of the origin of another of her accomplishments. She was an exquisite caligraphist. Not only did she write the most beautiful and legible of handwritings, but, long before illuminating was "fashionable," she illuminated on vellum; not by filling up printed texts or copying ornamental letters from handbooks of the art, but in valiant emulation of ancient MSS.; designing her own initial letters, with all varieties of characters, with "strawberry" borders, and gold raised and burnished as in the old models. I do not know when she first saw specimens of the old illuminations, for which she had always the deepest admiration, but it was in a Dante fever that she had resolved to write beautifully, because fine penmanship had been among the accomplishments of the great Italian poet. How well she succeeded her friends and her printers knew to their comfort! To Dante she dedicated some of her best efforts in this art. In 1826, when she was seventeen, she began to translate the Inferno into English verse. She made fair copies of each canto in exquisite writing, and dedicated them to various friends on covers which she illuminated. The most highly-finished was that dedicated to an old friend, Lord Tyrconnel, and the only plain one was the one dedicated to another friend, Sir Thomas Lawrence. The dedication was written in fine long characters, but there was no painting on the cover of the canto dedicated to the painter.

I do not know at what date my mother began to etch on copper. It was a very favourite pursuit through many years of her life, both before and after her marriage. She never sketched much in colour, but her pencil-drawings are amongst the most valuable legacies she has left us. Trees were her favourite subjects. One of her most beautiful drawings in my possession is of a tree, marked to fall, beneath which she wrote:

"Das ist das Loos des Schoenen auf der Erde."[2]

Of another talent nothing now remains to us but her old music-books and memories of long evenings when she played Weber and Mozart.

But to a large circle of friends, most of whom have gone before her, she was best known as a naturalist in the special department of phycology. She has left a fine collection of British and foreign sea-weeds and zoophytes. Never permitted the privilege of foreign travel—for which she so often longed—her sea-spoils have been gathered from all shores by those who loved her; and there are sea-weeds yet in press sent by Aunt Judy friends from Tasmania, which gave pleasure to the last days of her life. She did so keenly enjoy everything at which she worked that it is difficult to say in which of her hobbies she found most happiness; but I am disposed to give her natural history pursuits the palm.

Natural history brought her some of her dearest friends. Dr. Johnston, of Berwick-on-Tweed, to whom she dedicated the first volume of the Parables from Nature, was one of these; and with Dr. Harvey (author of the Phycologia Britannica, &c.) she corresponded for ten years before they met. Like herself, he combined a playful and poetical fancy with the scientific faculty, and they had sympathy together in the distinctive character of their religious belief, and in the worship of God in His works. But these, and many others, have "gone before."

One of her "collections" was an unusual one. Through nearly forty years she collected the mottoes on old sun-dials, and made sketches of the dials themselves. In this also she had many helpers, and the collection, which had swelled to about four hundred, was published last year. Amateur bookbinding and mowing were among the more eccentric of her hobbies. With the latter she infected Mr. Tennyson, and sent him a light Scotch scythe like her own.

The secret of her success and of her happiness in her labours was her thoroughness. It was a family joke that in the garden she was never satisfied to dabble in her flower-beds like other people, but would always clear out what she called "the Irish corners," and attack bits of waste or neglected ground from which everybody else shrank. And amongst our neighbours in the village, those with whom, day after day, time after time, she would plead "the Lord's controversy," were those with whom every one else had failed. Some old village would-be sceptic, half shame-faced, half conceited, who had not prayed for half a lifetime, or been inside a church except at funerals; careworn mothers fossilized in the long neglect, of religious duties; sinners whom every one else thought hopeless, and who most-of all counted themselves so—if God indeed permits us hereafter to bless those who led us to Him here, how many of these will rise up and call her blessed!

Her strong powers of sympathy were not confined to human beings alone. A more devoted lover of "beasts" can hardly exist. The household pets were about her to the end; and she only laughed when the dogs stole the bread and butter from her helpless hands.

Her long illness, perhaps, did less to teach us to do without her, than long illnesses commonly do; because her sick-room was so little like a sick-room, and her interests never narrowed to the fretful circle of mere invalid fears and fancies. The strong sense of humour, which never left her, helped her through many a petty annoyance; and to the last she kept one of her most striking qualities, so well described by Trench—

—— "a child's pure delight in little things."

Whatever interest this little record of some of my mother's tastes and acquirements may have for her young readers, its value must be in her example.

Whatever genius she may have had, her industry was far more remarkable. The pen of a ready writer is not grasped by all fingers, and gifts are gifts, not earnings. But to cultivate the faculties God has given us to His glory, to lose petty cares, ignoble pleasures, and small grievances, in the joy of studying His great works, to be good to His creatures, to be truthful beyond fear or flattery, to be pure of heart and tongue far beyond the common, to keep up an honest, zealous war with wickedness, and never to lose heart or hope for wicked men—these things are within the power as well as the ambition of us all.

I must point out to some of the young aspirants after her literary fame, that though the date in Elizabeth Smith's Remains shows my mother to have been only eleven years old when she got it, and though she worked and studied indefatigably all her girlhood, her first original work was not published till she was forty-two years old.

Of the lessons of her long years of suffering I cannot speak. A form of paralysis which left her brain as vigorous as ever, stole the cunning from her hand, and the use of her limbs and voice, through ten years of pain and privation, in which she made a willing sacrifice of her powers to the will of God.

If some of her magazine children who enjoy "advantages" she never had, who visit places and see sights for which she longed in vain, and who are spared the cross she bore so patiently, are helped by this short record of their old friend, it may somewhat repay the pain it has cost in writing.

Trench's fine sonnet was a great favourite of my mother's—

"To leave unseen so many a glorious sight, To leave so many lands unvisited, To leave so many books unread, Unrealized so many visions bright;— Oh! wretched yet inevitable spite Of our short span, and we must yield our breath, And wrap us in the unfeeling coil of death, So much remaining of unproved delight, But hush, my soul, and vain regrets be still'd; Find rest in Him Who is the complement Of whatsoe'er transcends our mortal doom, Of broken hope and frustrated intent; In the clear vision and aspect of Whom All wishes and all longings are fulfill'd."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: "Such is the lost of the beautiful upon earth."—Wallenstein's Tod.]



TALES OF THE KHOJA.[3]

(Adapted from the Turkish.)

INTRODUCTION.

"O my children!" said the story-teller, "do you indeed desire amusement by the words of my lips? Then shut your mouths, that the noise you make may be abated, and I may hear myself speak; and open your ears, that you may be entertained by the tales that I shall tell you. Shut your mouths and open your ears, I say, and you will, without doubt, receive pleasure from what I shall have to relate of Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen-Effendi.

"This Khoja was not altogether a wise man, nor precisely a fool, nor entirely a knave.

"It is true, O children, that his wisdom was flecked with folly, but what saith the proverb? 'No one so wise but he has some folly to spare.' Moreover, in his foolishness there was often a hidden meaning, as a letter is hid in a basket of dates—not for every eye.

"As to his knaveries, they were few, and more humorous than injurious. Though be it far from me, O children, as a man of years and probity, to defend the conduct of the Khoja to the Jew money-lender.

"What about the Jew money-lender, do you ask?

"This is the tale."

Tale 1.—The Khoja and the Nine Hundred and Ninety-nine Pieces of Gold.

This Khoja was very poor.

One day, wishing for a piece of gold, he corrected himself, saying: "It costs no more to wish for a thousand pieces than for one. I wish for a thousand gold pieces."

And he repeated aloud—"I wish for a thousand pieces of gold. I would not accept one less."

Now it so happened that he was overheard by a certain covetous Jew money-lender. This man was of a malicious disposition; and the poverty of the Khoja was a satisfaction to him. When he heard what the Khoja said he chuckled to himself, saying, "Truly this Khoja is a funny fellow, and it would be a droll thing to see him refuse nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold. For without doubt he would keep his word."

And as he spoke, the Jew put nine hundred and ninety-nine gold pieces into a purse, and dropped the purse down the Khoja's chimney, with the intention of giving him annoyance.

The Khoja picked up the purse and opened it.

"Allah be praised!" he cried, "for the fulfilment of my desires. Here are the thousand pieces."

Meanwhile the Jew was listening at the chimney-top, and he heard the Khoja begin to count the coins. When he got to the nine hundred and ninety-ninth, and had satisfied himself that there was not another, he paused, and the Jew merchant held his breath.

At last the Khoja spoke.

"O my soul!" said he, "is it decent to spit in the face of good fortune for the sake of one gold piece in a thousand? Without doubt it is an oversight, and he who sent these will send the missing one also." Saying which, the Khoja put the money into his sash and sat down to smoke.

The Jew now became fidgety, and he hastened down to the Khoja's door, at which he knocked, and entering, said, "Good-day, Khoja Effendi. May I ask you to be good enough to restore to me my nine hundred and ninety-nine gold pieces?"

"Are you mad, O Jew money-lender?" replied the Khoja. "Is it likely that you would throw gold down my chimney? These pieces fell from heaven in fulfilment of my lawful desires."

"O my soul, Khoja!" cried the Jew, "I did it, indeed! It was a jest, O Khoja! You said, 'I will not take one less than a thousand,' wherefore I put nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces in the purse, and it was for a joke."

"I do not see the joke," said the Khoja, "but I have accepted the gold pieces." And he went on smoking.

The Jew money-lender now became desperate.

"Let us go to the magistrate," he cried. "The Cadi Effendi shall decide between us."

"It is well said," replied the Khoja. "But it would not beseem a Khoja like myself to go through the public streets to the court on foot; and I am poor, and have no mule."

"O my soul!" said the Jew, "let not that trouble you. I will send and fetch one of my mules."

But when the mule was at the door, the Khoja said: "Is it fitting, O money-lender, that a Khoja like myself should appear in these rags before a Cadi Effendi? But I am poor, and have no suitable dress."

"Let not that be a hindrance, O Khoja!" said the Jew. "For I have a pelisse made of the most beautiful fur, which I will send for without delay."

In due time this arrived, and, richly clothed, the Khoja rode through the streets with a serene countenance, the Jew money-lender running after him in the greatest anxiety.

When they came before the Cadi, the Jew prostrated himself, and cried in piteous tones, "Help, O most noble Dispenser of Justice! This Khoja has stolen from me nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold—and now he denies it."

Then the Cadi turned to the Khoja, who said: "O Cadi Effendi, I did indeed earnestly desire a thousand pieces of gold, and this purse came to me in fulfilment of my wishes. But when I counted the pieces I found one short. Then I said, 'The bountiful giver of these will certainly send the other also.' So I accepted what was given to me. But in this Jew money-lender is the spirit of covetousness. For half a farthing, O Cadi, he would, without doubt, lay claim to the beast I ride, or to the coat on my back."

"O my soul!" screamed the Jew. "It is indeed true that they are mine. The mule and the fur pelisse belong to me, O Cadi!"

"O you covetous rascal!" said the Cadi, "you will lay claim to my turban next, or to the Sultan's horses." And he commanded the Jew to be driven from his presence.

But the Khoja rode home again, and—he accepted the mule and the fur pelisse, as well as the nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold.

Tale 2.—The Khoja at the Marriage Feast.

On the following day Khoja Effendi went to a marriage feast, dressed in his old clothes.

His appearance was indeed very shabby, and the attendants were almost disposed to refuse him admission, but he slipped in whilst honours and compliments were being paid on the arrival of some grander guests. Even those who knew him well were so much ashamed of his dress as to be glad to look another way to avoid saluting him.

All this was quickly observed by the Khoja, and after a few moments (during which no one asked him to be seated) he slipped out and ran home, where he put on the splendid fur pelisse which he had accepted from the Jew money-lender, and so returned to the door of the house of feasting.

Seeing a guest so richly apparelled draw near, the servants ran out to meet him with all signs of respect, and the master of the feast came out also to meet him with other guests, saluting him and saying, "Welcome, O most learned Khoja!" And all who knew him saluted him in like manner, and secretly blessed themselves that his acquaintance did them credit.

But the Khoja looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, and he made no reply.

Then they led him to the upper end of the table, crying, "Please to be seated, Khoja Effendi!"

Whereupon the Khoja seated himself, but he did not speak, and the guests stood round him, waiting to hear what should fall from his lips.

And when the Khoja had been served with food, he took hold of the sleeve of his pelisse and pulled it towards the dish, saying, in a tone of respect, "O most worthy and honourable pelisse! be good enough to partake of this dish. In the name of the Prophet I beseech you do not refuse to taste what has been hospitably provided."

"What is this, Khoja?" cried the people, "and what do you mean by offering food to a fur pelisse that can neither hear nor eat?"

"O most courteous entertainers!" replied the Khoja, "since the pelisse has commanded such respect at your hands, is it not proper that it should also partake of the food?"

Tale 3.—The Khoja's Slippers.

One day, when the idle boys of the neighbourhood were gathered together and ready for mischief, they perceived the Khoja approaching.

"Here comes this mad Khoja!" they said. "Let us now persuade him to climb the largest of these mulberry-trees, and whilst he is climbing we will steal his slippers."

And when the Khoja drew near, they cried, "O Khoja, here is indeed a tree which it is not possible to climb."

The Khoja looked at the mulberry-tree and said, "You are in error, my children, any one of you could climb that tree."

But they said, "We cannot."

Then said the Khoja, "I, who am an old man, could climb that mulberry-tree."

Then the boys cried, "O most illustrious Khoja! we beseech of you to climb the tree before our eyes, that we may believe what you say, and also be encouraged to try ourselves."

"I will climb it," said the Khoja. Thereupon he kicked off his slippers as the children had anticipated; and tucking his skirts into his girdle, he prepared to climb.



But whilst they were waiting to steal his slippers, the Khoja put them into his pocket.

"Effendi Khoja," said the children, "wherefore do you not leave your slippers on the ground? What will you do with slippers up in the mulberry-tree?"

"O my children!" said the Khoja dryly, "it is good to be provided against everything. I may come upon a road further up."

Tale 4.—The Khoja and the Three Wise Men.

In the days of Effendi Nasr-ed-Deen Khoja there appeared in the world three Sages, who excelled in every science and in all wisdom.

Now it came to pass that in their journeys these wise men passed through the country of the Sultan Ala-ed-Deen, who desired to see them, and to make them partake of his hospitality.

And when the Sultan had seen and heard them, he said: "O Sages, there is indeed nothing wanting to you but that you should embrace the faith and become Turks, and remain in my kingdom. Wherefore I beseech of you to do this without further delay."

Then the wise men replied to the Padisha: "We will, if it please you, ask three questions of your learned men. One question shall be asked by each of us, and if they are able to answer these questions, we will embrace your faith, and remain with you as you desire. And if not, we will depart in peace, and prolong our journeys as heretofore."

Then the Padisha replied: "So be it." And he assembled the learned men and counsellors of his kingdom, and the Sages put questions to them, which they could not answer.

Then the Sultan Ala-ed-Deen was full of wrath, and he said, "Is this my kingdom, and am I the ruler of it; and is there not indeed one man of my subjects wise enough to answer the questions of these unbelieving Sages?"

And his servants replied: "There is indeed no one who could answer these questions, except it be Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi."

Then the Sultan commanded, and they despatched a Tatar in all haste to summon Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi to the presence of the Padisha.

When the messenger arrived, he told his errand to the Khoja, who at once rose up, saddled his donkey, took a stick in his hand, and mounted, saying to the Tatar, "Go before me!"

Thus they came to the palace, and the Khoja entered the presence of the Sultan, and gave the salaam and received it in return. Then he was shown where to sit, and being seated, and having made a prayer for the Padisha, "O most noble Sultan," said he, "wherefore have you brought me hither, and what is your will with me?"

Then the Sultan explained the circumstances of the case, and the Khoja cried, "What are the questions? Let me hear them."

Then the first wise man came forward and said: "My question, most worshipful Effendi, is this: Where is the middle of the world?"

The Khoja, without an instant's hesitation, pointed with his stick to a fore-hoof of his donkey.

"There," said he, "exactly where my donkey's foot is placed—there is the centre of the earth."

"How do you know that?" asked the Sage.

"If you do not believe me," replied the Khoja, "measure for yourself. If you find it wrong one way or the other, I will acknowledge my error."

The second Sage now came forward and said: "O Khoja Effendi, how many stars are there on the face of this sky?"

"The same number," replied the Khoja, "as there are hairs on my donkey."

"How do you know that?" asked the wise man.

"If you do not believe me," replied the Khoja, "count for yourself. If there is a hair too few or too many, I will acknowledge my error."

"O most learned Khoja!" said the wise man, "have you indeed counted the hairs on your donkey?"

"O most venerable Sage!" replied the Khoja, "have you indeed numbered the stars of the sky?"

But as the Khoja spoke the third wise man came forward and said: "Most worshipful Effendi! Be pleased now to hear my question, and if you can answer it, we will conform to the wishes of the Sultan. How many hairs are there in my beard?"

"As many," replied the Khoja, "as there are hairs in my donkey's tail."

"How do you know that?" asked the wise man.

"If you do not believe me, count for yourself," said the Khoja.

But the wise man replied: "It is for you to count, and to prove to me the truth of what you say."

"With all my heart," replied the Khoja. "And I will do it in a way that cannot possibly fail. I shall first pull out a hair from your beard, and then one from my donkey's tail, and then another from your beard, and so on. Thus at the end it will be seen whether the number of the hairs of each kind exactly correspond."

But the wise man did not wait for this method of proof to be enforced by the Sultan. He hastily announced himself as a convert to the Padisha's wishes. The other two Sages followed his example, and their wisdom was for many years the light of the court of the Sultan Ala-ed-Deen.

Moreover, they became disciples of the Khoja.

Tale 5.—The Khoja's Donkey.

One day there came a man to the house of the Khoja to ask him for the loan of his donkey.

"The donkey is not at home," replied the Khoja, who was unwilling to lend his beast.

At this moment the donkey brayed loudly from within.

"O Khoja Effendi!" cried the man, "what you say cannot be true, for I can hear your donkey quite distinctly as I stand here."

"What a strange man you must be," said the Effendi. "Is it possible that you believe a donkey rather than me, who am grey-haired and a Khoja?"

Tale 6.—The Khoja's Gown.

One day the Khoja's wife, having washed her husband's gown, hung it out in the garden to dry.

Now in the dusk of the evening the Khoja repaired to his garden, where he saw, as he believed, a thief standing with outstretched arms.

"O you rascal!" he cried, "is it you who steal my fruit? But you shall do so no more."

And having called to his wife for his bow and arrows, the Khoja took aim and pierced his gown through the middle. Then without waiting to see the result he hastened into his house, secured the door with much care, and retired to rest.

When morning dawned, the Khoja went out into the garden, where perceiving that what he had hit was his own gown, he seated himself and returned thanks to the All-merciful Disposer of Events.

"Truly," said he, "I have had a narrow escape. If I had been inside it, I should have been dead long before this!"

Tale 7.—The Khoja and the Fast of Ramadan.

In a certain year, when the holy month of the fast of Ramadan was approaching, Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen took counsel with himself and resolved not to observe it.

"Truly," said he, "there is no necessity that I should fast like the common people. I will rather provide myself with a vase into which I will drop a stone every day. When there are thirty pebbles in the vase, I shall know that Ramadan is over, and I shall then be able to keep the feast of Bairam at the proper season."

Accordingly, on the first day of the month the Khoja dropped a stone into the vase, and so he continued to do day by day.

Now the Khoja had a little daughter, and it came to pass that one day the child, having observed the pebbles in the vase, went out and gathered a handful and added them to the rest. But her father was not aware of it.



On the twenty-fifth day of Ramadan the Khoja met at the Bazaar with certain of his neighbours, who said to him, "Be good enough, most learned Khoja, to tell us what day of the month it is."

"Wait a bit, and I will see," replied the Khoja. Saying this, he ran to his house, emptied the vase, and began to count the stones. To his amazement he found that there were a hundred and twenty!

"If I say as much as this," thought the Khoja, "they will call me a fool. Even half would be more than could be believed."

So he went back to the Bazaar and said, "It is the full forty-fifth of the month, quite that."

"O Khoja!" the neighbours replied, "there are only thirty days in a complete month, and do you tell us to-day is the forty-fifth?"

"O neighbours!" answered the Khoja, "believe me, I speak with moderation. If you look into the vase, you will find that according to its account to-day is the one hundred and twentieth."

Tale 8.—The Khoja and the Thief.

One day a thief got into the Khoja's house, and the Khoja watched him.

The thief poked here, there, and everywhere, and after collecting all that he could carry, he put the load on his back and went off.

The Khoja then came out, and hastily gathering up the few things which were left of his property, he put them on his own back, and hurried after the thief.

At last he arrived before the door of the thief's house, at which he knocked.

"What do you want?" said the thief.

"Why, we are moving into this house, aren't we?" said the Khoja. "I've brought the rest of the things."

Tale 9.—The Bird of Prey and the Piece of Soap.

One day the Khoja went with his wife to wash clothes at the head of a spring.

They had placed the soap beside them on the ground, and were just about to begin, when a black bird of prey swooped suddenly down, and snatching up the soap, flew away with it, believing it to be some kind of food.

"Run, Khoja, run!" cried the distracted wife. "Make haste, I beseech you, and catch that thief of a bird. He has carried off my soap."

"O wife!" replied the Khoja, "let him alone. He wants it more than we do, poor fellow! Our clothes are not half so black as what he has got on."

Tale 10.—The Khoja and the Wolves.

"Wife!" said the Khoja one day, "how do you know when a man is dead?"

"When his hands and feet have become cold, Khoja," replied the good woman, "I know that it is all over then. The man is dead."

Some time afterwards the Khoja went to the mountain to cut wood. It was in the winter, and after he had worked for an hour or two his hands and feet became very cold.

"It is really a melancholy thing," said he; "but I fear that there can be no doubt that I am dead. If this is the case, however, I have no business to be on my feet, much less to be chopping firewood which I have not lived to require." So he went and lay down under a tree.

By and by came the wolves, and they fell upon the Khoja's donkey, and devoured it.

The Khoja watched them from the place where he was lying.

"Ah, you brutes!" said he, "it is lucky for you that you have found a donkey whose master is dead, and cannot interfere."

Tale 11.—A Penny a Head.

The Turks shave their heads and allow their beards to grow. Thus the Khoja went every week to the barber to have his head shaved, and when it was done, the barber held out the mirror to him, that, having looked at himself, he might place a penny fee on the mirror as the custom is.

Now as he grew old the Khoja became very bald.

One day when he was about to be shaved, passing his hand over his head, he perceived that the crown was completely bald. But he said nothing, and having paid his penny, took his departure as usual.



Next week Khoja Effendi went again to the barber's.

When his head had been shaved he looked in the mirror as before; but he put nothing on it.

As he rose to depart, the barber stopped him, saying, "Most worshipful Effendi, you have forgotten to pay."

"My head is now half bald," said the Khoja; "will not one penny do for two shavings?"

Tale 12.—The Khoja a Cadi.

The late Khoja Effendi when he filled the office of Cadi had some puzzling cases to decide.

One day two men came before him, and one of them said, "This fellow has bitten my ear, O Cadi!"

"No, no, most learned Cadi!" said the other; "that is not true. He bit his own ear, and now tries to lay the blame upon me."

"One cannot bite his own ear," said the first man; "wherefore the lies of this scoundrel are obvious."

"Begone, both of you," said the Khoja; "but come back to-morrow, when I will give judgment."

When the men had gone, the Khoja withdrew to a quiet place, where he would be undisturbed, that he might try if he could bite his own ear. Taking the ear in his fingers, he made many efforts to seize it with his teeth, crying, "Can I bite it?"

But in the vehemence of his efforts the Khoja lost his balance and fell backwards, wounding his head.

The following day he took his seat with his head bound up in a linen cloth, and the men coming before him related their dispute as before, and cried, "Now, is it possible, O Cadi?"

"O, you fellows!" said the Khoja, "biting is easy enough, and you can fall and break your own head into the bargain."

Tale 13.—The Khoja's Quilt.

One night after Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen had retired to rest he was disturbed by a man making a great noise before his door in the street outside.

"O wife!" said he, "get up, I pray you, and light a candle, that I may discover what this noise in the street is about."

"Lie still, man," said his wife. "What have we to do with street brawlers? Keep quiet and go to sleep."

But the Khoja would not listen to her advice, and taking the bed-quilt, he threw it round his shoulders, and went out to see what was the matter.

Then the rascal who was making the disturbance, seeing a fine quilt floating from the Khoja's shoulders, came behind him and snatched it away, and ran off with it.

After a while the Khoja felt thoroughly chilled, and he went back to bed.

"Well, Effendi," said his wife: "what have you discovered?"

"We were more concerned in the noise than you thought," said the Khoja.

"What was it about, O Khoja?" asked his wife.

"It must have been about our quilt," he replied; "for when the man got that he went off quietly enough."

Tale 14.—The Khoja and the Beggar.

One day whilst Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi was in his house, a man knocked at the door.

The Khoja looked out from an upper window.

"What dost thou want?" said he. But the man was a beggar by trade, and fearing that the Khoja might refuse to give alms when he was so well beyond reach of the mendicant's importunities, he would not state his business, but continued to cry, "Come down, come down!" as if he had something of importance to relate.

So the Khoja went down, and on his again saying "What dost thou want?" the beggar began to beg, crying, "The Inciter of Compassion move thee to enable me to purchase food for my supper! I am the guest of the Prophet!" with other exclamations of a like nature.

"Come up-stairs," replied the Khoja, turning back into his house.

Well pleased, the beggar followed him, but when they reached the upper room the Khoja turned round and dismissed him, saying, "Heaven supply your necessities. I have nothing for you."

"O Effendi!" said the beggar, "why did you not tell me this whilst I was below?"

"O Beggar!" replied the Khoja, "why did you call me down when I was up-stairs?"

Tale 15.—The Khoja Turned Nightingale.

One day the Khoja went into a garden which did not belong to him, and seeing an apricot-tree laden with delicious fruit, he climbed up among the branches and began to help himself.

Whilst he was eating the apricots the owner of the garden came in and discovered him.

"What are you doing up there, Khoja?" said he.

"O my soul!" said the Khoja, "I am not the person you imagine me to be. Do you not see that I am a nightingale? I am singing in the apricot-tree."

"Let me hear you sing," said the gardener.

The Khoja began to trill like a bird; but the noise he made was so uncouth that the man burst out laughing.

"What kind of a song is this?" said he. "I never heard a nightingale's note like that before."



"It is not the voice of a native songster," said the Khoja demurely, "but the foreign nightingale sings so."

Tale 16.—The Khoja's Donkey and The Woollen Pelisse.

One day the Khoja mounted his donkey to ride to the garden, but on the way there he had business which obliged him to dismount and leave the donkey for a short time.

When he got down he took off his woollen pelisse, and throwing it over the saddle, went about his affairs. But he had hardly turned his back when a thief came by who stole the woollen pelisse, and made off with it.

When the Khoja returned and found that the pelisse was gone, he became greatly enraged, and beat the donkey with his stick. Then, dragging the saddle from the poor beast's back, he put it on his own shoulders, crying, "Find my pelisse, you careless rascal, and then you shall have your saddle again!"

Tale 17.—A Ladder To Sell.

There was a certain garden into which the Khoja was desirous to enter, but the gate was fastened, and he could not.

One day, therefore, he took a ladder upon his shoulder, and repaired to the place, where he put the ladder against the garden-wall, and having climbed to the top, drew the ladder over, and by this means descended into the garden.

As he was prying about in came the gardener.

"Who are you?" said he to the Khoja. "And what do you want?"

"I sell ladders," replied the Khoja, running hastily back to the wall, and throwing the ladder once more upon his shoulders.



"Come, come!" said the gardener, "that answer will not do. This is not a place for selling ladders."

"You must be very ignorant," replied the Khoja gravely, "if you do not know that ladders are salable anywhere."

Tale 18.—The Cat and the Khoja's Supper.

The Khoja, like many another man, was fond of something nice for his supper.

But no matter how often he bought a piece of liver to make a tasty dish, his wife always gave it away to a certain friend of hers, and when the Khoja came home in the evening he got nothing to eat but cakes.

"Wife," said he at last, "I bring home some liver every day that we may have a good supper, and you put nothing but pastry before me. What becomes of the meat?"

"The cat steals it, O Khoja!" replied his wife.

On this the Khoja rose from his seat, and taking the axe proceeded to lock it up in a box.

"What are you doing with the axe, Khoja?" said his wife.

"I am hiding it from the cat," replied the Khoja. "The sort of cat who steals two pennyworth of liver is not likely to spare an axe worth forty pence."

Tale 19.—The Cadi's Ferejeh.

One day a certain Cadi of Sur-Hissar, being very drunk, lay down in a garden and fell asleep. The Khoja, having gone out for a walk, passed by the spot and saw the Cadi lying dead drunk and senseless, with his ferejeh—or overcoat—half off his back.

It was a very valuable ferejeh, of rich material, and the Khoja took it and went home remarkably well dressed.

When the Cadi recovered his senses he found that his ferejeh was gone. Thereupon he called his officers and commanded them, saying: "On whomsoever ye shall see my ferejeh, bring the fellow before me."

Meanwhile the Khoja wore it openly, and at last the officers took him and brought him before the Cadi.

"O Khoja!" said the Cadi, "how came you by what belongs to me? Where did you find that ferejeh?"

"Most exemplary Cadi," replied the Khoja, "I went out yesterday for a short time before sunset, and as I walked I perceived a disreputable-looking fellow lying shamefully drunk, and exposed to the derision of passers-by in the public gardens. His ferejeh was half off his back, and I said within myself, 'This valuable ferejeh will certainly be stolen, whilst he to whom it belongs is sleeping the sleep of drunkenness. I will therefore take it and wear it, and when the owner has his senses restored to him, he will be able to see and reclaim it.' So I took the ferejeh, and if it be thine, O Cadi, take it!"

"It cannot be my ferejeh, of course," said the Cadi hastily; "though there is a similarity which at first deceived me."

"Then I will keep it till the man claims it," said the Khoja.

And he did so.

Tale 20.—The Two Pans.

One day the Khoja borrowed a big pan of his next-door neighbour.



When he had done with it he put a smaller pan inside it, and carried it back.

"What is this?" said the neighbour.

"It is a young pan," replied the Khoja. "It is the child of your big pan, and therefore belongs to you."

The neighbour laughed in his sleeve.

"If this Khoja is mad," said he, "a sensible man like myself need not refuse to profit by his whims."

So he replied, "It is well, O Khoja! The pan is a very good pan. May its posterity be increased!"

And he took the Khoja's pan as well as his own, and the Khoja departed.

After a few days the Khoja came again to borrow the big pan, which his neighbour lent him willingly, saying to himself, "Doubtless something else will come back in it." But after he had waited two—three—four—and five days, and the Khoja did not return it, the neighbour betook himself to the Khoja's house and asked for his pan.

The Khoja came to the door with a sad countenance.

"Allah preserve you, neighbour!" said he. "May your health be better than that of our departed friend, who will return to you no more. The big pan is dead."

"Nonsense, Khoja Effendi!" said the neighbour, "You know well enough that a pan cannot die."

"You were quite willing to believe that it had had a child," said the Khoja; "it seems odd you cannot believe that it is dead."

Tale 21.—The Day of the Month.

One day Khoja Effendi walked into the bazaar. As he went about among the buyers and sellers, a man came up to him and said, "Is it the third or fourth day of the month to-day?"

"How should I know?" replied the Khoja. "I don't deal in the moon."

Tale 22.—The Khoja's Dream.

One night when he was asleep the Khoja dreamed that he found nine pieces of money.

"Bountiful heaven!" said he, "let me have been mistaken. I will count them afresh. Let there be ten!" And when he counted them there were ten. Then he said, "Let there be nineteen!" And vehemently contending for nineteen he awoke. But when he was awake and found that there was nothing in his hands, he shut his eyes again, and stretching his hands out said, "Make it nine pieces, I'll not say another word."

Tale 23.—The Old Moon.

One day some of the neighbours said, "Let us ask this Khoja something that will puzzle him, and see what he will say." So they came to the Khoja and said, "The moon is on the wane, Khoja Effendi, and we shall soon have a new one; what will be done with the old moon?"

"They will break it up and make stars of it," said the Khoja.

Tale 24.—The Short Piece of Muslin.

One day Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi was tying a new piece of muslin for his turban, when to his annoyance he discovered that it was too short. He tried a second time, but still it was not long enough, and he spoiled his turban, and lost his temper. Much vexed with the muslin, the Khoja took it to the bazaar, and gave it in to be sold by auction.

By and by the sale began, and after a time the muslin was put up, and a man came forward and began to bid. Another man bid against him, and the first man continued to raise his price.

The Khoja was standing near, and at last he could bear it no longer. "That rascal of a muslin has cheated me and put me to infinite inconvenience," said he; "it played me false; and am I bound to conceal its deficiencies?"

Then he came softly up to the highest bidder, and whispered, "Take care what you are about, brother, in buying that muslin. It's a short length."

Tale 25.—The Khoja Peeps Into Futurity.

Having need of a stout piece of wood, the Khoja one day decided to cut off a certain branch from a tree that belonged to him, as he perceived that it would serve his purpose.

Taking, therefore, his axe in his hand, and tucking his skirts into his girdle, he climbed the tree, and the branch he desired being firm and convenient, he seated himself upon it, and then began to hack and hew.

As he sat and chopped a man passed by below him, who called out and said, "O stupid man! What are you doing? When the branch is cut through you will certainly fall to the ground."

"Are the decrees of the future less veiled from this man than from me, who am a Khoja?" said Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi to himself, and he made the man no reply, but chopped on.

In a few moments the branch gave way, and the Khoja fell to the ground.

When he recovered himself he jumped up, and ran after the man who had warned him.



"O you fellow!" cried he. "It has happened to me even as you foretold. At the moment when the branch was cut through I fell to the ground. Now, therefore, since the future is open to thee, I beseech thee to tell me the day of my death."

"This madness is greater than the other," replied the man. "The day of death is among the hidden counsels of the Most High."

But the Khoja held him by the gown and continued to urge him, saying, "You told me when I should fall from the tree, and it came to pass to the moment. Tell me now how long I have to live." And as he would not release him, but kept crying, "How much time have I left?" the man lost patience, and said, "O fool! there is no more time left to thee. The days of the years of thy life are numbered."

"Then I am dead, lo I am dead!" said the Khoja, and he lay down, and stiffened himself, and did not move.

By and by his neighbours came and stood at his head, and having observed him, they brought a bier and laid him on it, saying, "Let us take him to his own house."

Now in the way thither there was in the road a boggy place, which it was difficult to pass, and the bearers of the bier stood still and consulted, saying, "Which way shall we go?"

And they hesitated so long that the Khoja, becoming impatient, raised his head from the bier, and said, "That's the way I used to go myself, when I was alive."

Tale 26.—The Two Moons.

On a certain day when the Khoja went to Sur-Hissar he saw a group of persons looking at the new moon.

"What extraordinary people the men of this place must be!" said he, "In our country the moon may be seen as large as a plate, and no one troubles his head about it, and here people stare at it when it is only a quarter the size."

Tale 27.—The Khoja Preaching.

One of the Khoja's duties—as a religious teacher—was to preach to the people. But once upon a time he became very lazy about this, and was always seeking an excuse to shorten or omit his sermons.

On a certain day about this time he mounted into the pulpit, and looking down on the congregation assembled to listen to him, he stretched forth his hands and cried, "Ah, Believers! what shall I say to you?"

And the men beat upon their breasts, and replied with one voice, "We do not know, most holy Khoja! we do not know."

"Oh, if you don't know—" said the Khoja indignantly, and gathering his robe about him, he quitted the pulpit without another word.

The men looked at each other in dismay, for the Khoja was a very popular preacher.



"We have done wrong," said they, "though we know not how; without doubt our ignorance is an offence to his learning. Wherefore, if he comes again, whatever he says to us we will seem as if we knew all about it."

The following week the Khoja got again into the pulpit, from which he could see a larger assembly than before.

"O ye Muslims!" he began, "what am I to say—"

But before the words were fairly out of his mouth the congregation cried out with one voice, "We know, good Khoja! We know!"

"Oh, if you know—" said the Khoja sarcastically, and shrugging his shoulders, and lifting his eyebrows, he left the place as one who feels that he can be of no further use.

"This is worse than before," said the Muslims in despair. But after a while they took counsel, and said, "Let him come once more, and we will not lose our sermon this time. If he asks the same question we will reply that some of us know, but that some of us do not know."

So when the Khoja next appeared before the congregation, and after he had cried as before, "O Brethren! do ye know what I am about to say?" they answered, "Some of us know, but some of us do not know."

"How nice!" said the Khoja, smiling benevolently upon the crowd beneath him, as he prepared to take his departure. "Then those of you who know can explain it all to those who do not know."

Tale 28.—The Khoja and the Horsemen.

One day when Khoja Effendi was crossing a certain desert plain a troop of horsemen suddenly appeared riding towards him.

"No doubt these are Bedawee robbers," thought the Khoja, "who will kill me without remorse for the sake of the Cadi's ferejeh which I wear." And in much alarm he hastened towards a cemetery which he had perceived to be near. Here he quickly stripped off his clothes, and, having hidden them, crept naked into an empty tomb and lay down.

But the horsemen pursued after him, and by and by they came into the cemetery, and one of them peeped into the tomb and saw the Khoja.

"Here is the man we saw!" cried the horseman; and he said to the Khoja, "What are you lying there for, and where are your clothes?"

"The dead have no possessions, O Bedawee!" replied the Khoja. "I am buried here. If you saw me on the plain as I used to appear in life, without doubt you are one of those who can see ghosts and apparitions."

Tale 29.—The Ox Trespassing.

One day Khoja Effendi, repairing to a piece of ground which belonged to him, found that a strange ox had got into the enclosure. The Khoja took a thick stick to beat it with, but the beast, seeing him coming, ran away and escaped.

Next week the Khoja met a Turk driving the ox, which was harnessed to a waggon.

Thereupon the Khoja took a stick in his hand, and, running after the ox, belaboured it soundly. "O man!" cried the Turk, "what are you beating my beast for?"

"Hold your tongue, you fool," said the Khoja, "and don't meddle with what doesn't concern you. The ox knows well enough."

Tale 30.—The Khoja's Camel.

The next time Khoja Effendi was obliged to take a journey he resolved to accompany a caravan for protection.

Now the Khoja had lately become possessed of a valuable camel, and he said to himself, "I will ride my camel instead of going on foot; the journey will then be a pleasure, and I shall not be fatigued." So he mounted the camel and set forth.

But as he was riding with the caravan the camel stumbled, and the Khoja was thrown off and severely hurt. The people of the caravan coming to his assistance found that he was stunned, but after a while they succeeded in restoring him.

When the Khoja came to his senses he tore his clothes, and cried in great rage and indignation, "O Muslims! you do not know what care I have taken of this camel, and this is how I am rewarded! Will no one kill it for me? It has done its best to kill me."

But his friends said, "Be appeased, most worthy Effendi, we could not kill your valuable camel."

"O benefactors!" replied the Khoja, "since you desire the brute's life it must be spared. But it shall have no home with me. I am about to drive it into the desert, where it may stumble to its heart's content."

So the Khoja drove the camel away; but before he did so he tore the furniture and trappings furiously from its back, crying, "I won't leave you a rag, you ungrateful beast!"

And he pursued his journey on foot, carrying the camel's furniture as best as he might.

Tale 31.—An Open Question.

The Khoja wanted vegetables for cooking, so he took a sack and slipped into a neighbouring garden, which was abundantly supplied. He picked some herbs, and pulled up some turnips, and got a little of everything he could find to fill his bag. Both hands were full, when the gardener suddenly appeared and seized him.

"What are you doing here?" said the gardener.

The Khoja was confounded, and not being able to find a good excuse, he said, "A very strong wind blew during the night. Having driven me a long way, it blew me here."

"Oh," said the gardener; "but who plucked these herbs which I see in your hands?"

"The wind was so very strong," answered the Khoja, "that when it blew me into this place I clutched with both hands at the first things I could lay hold of, lest it should drive me further. And so they remain in my grasp."

"Oh," said the gardener; "but who put these into the sack, I wonder?"

"That is just what puzzles me," the Khoja replied; "I was thinking about it when you came in."

Tale 32.—The Spurting Fountain.

One summer's day the Khoja had come a long way, and was very hot and thirsty. By and by he perceived a fountain, of which the pipe was stopped up with a piece of wood.

"Now I shall quench my thirst," said the Khoja, and he pulled out the stopper, on which the water rushed out with vehement force over the Khoja's head, and drenched him in a moment.

"Ah!" cried the Khoja angrily, "it's because of your running so madly that they have stuck that stick into you, I suppose."

Tale 33.—Well-meant Soup.

One day as the Khoja was returning home he met a party of students walking together.

"Good-evening, Effendis!" said he. "Pray come home with me, and we will have some soup."

The students did not think twice about accepting the invitation, and they followed the Khoja home to his house.

"Pray be seated," said the Khoja, and when they had seated themselves he went to the upper room. "Wife," said he, "I have brought home some guests. Let us give them a good bowl of soup."

"O Effendi!" cried the wife, "is there any butter in the house? Is there any rice? Have you brought anything home for me to make it of, that you ask for soup?"

"Give me the soup-bowl," said the Khoja. Then taking the empty bowl in his hand he returned to the students.

"O Effendis!" said he, "be good enough, I beseech you, to take the will for the deed. You are indeed most welcome, and if there had been butter or rice, or anything else in our house, you would have had excellent soup out of this very bowl."

Tale 34.—The Khoja and the Ten Blind Men.

Once upon a time Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen, wandering by the banks of a river, came to a certain ford near which he seated himself to rest.

By and by came ten blind men, who were desirous of crossing the river, and they agreed with the Khoja that he should help them across for the payment of one penny each.

The Khoja accordingly exerted himself to the utmost of his power, and he got nine of the blind men safely across; but as he was helping the tenth, the man lost his footing, and in spite of the Khoja's efforts the river overpowered him, and bore him away.

Thereupon the nine blind men on the opposite shore set up a lamentable wail, crying, "What has happened, O Khoja?"

"One penny less to pay than you expected," said the Khoja.

Tale 35.—The End of the World.

Now Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had a lamb which he brought up and fattened with much care.



Some of his friends were very desirous to get hold of this lamb and make a feast of it. So they came to the Khoja and begged him earnestly to give up the lamb for a feast, but the Khoja would not consent.

At last one day came one of them and said, "O Khoja! to-morrow is the end of the world. What will you do with this lamb on the last day? We may as well eat it this evening."

"If it be so, let us do as you say," replied the Khoja, for he thought that the man was in earnest. So they lighted the fire and roasted the lamb, and had an excellent feast. But the Khoja perceived that they had played a trick upon him.

By and by his friends went to some little distance to play games together, but the Khoja would not accompany them, so they left their upper garments in his charge and departed to their amusements.

When they were gone the Khoja took the clothes and put them on to the fire where the lamb had been roasted, and burnt them all.

After a while the friends returned and found their robes burnt to ashes.

"O Khoja!" they cried, "who has burnt our clothes? Alas, alas! what shall we do?"

"Never mind," said the Khoja, "to-morrow the world comes to an end, you know. You would not have wanted them for long."

Tale 36.—The Dog on the Tomb.

One day the Khoja was wandering among the tombs. As he strolled along he perceived a dog lying upon a grave-stone.

Indignant at this profanation of a tomb, the Khoja took a stout stick and made up his mind to chastise the intruder. But the dog, who saw what was coming, got up and prepared to fly at him.

The Khoja never ran any unnecessary risk. When he perceived that the dog was about to attack him, and that he would have the worst of it, he lowered his stick.

"Pray don't disturb yourself," said he; "I give in."

Tale 37.—The Khoja and the Mullas.

Once upon a time the Khoja, riding on his donkey, was proceeding to a certain place to give public instruction, when he was followed by several law-students, who walked behind him.

Perceiving this, the Khoja dismounted, and got up again with his face to the donkey's tail.

"O Khoja!" cried the Mullas, "why do you ride backwards?"

"It is the only way in which we can show each other proper civility," replied the Khoja; "for when I ride in the usual fashion, if you walk behind me I turn my back on you, and if you walk before me you turn your backs on me."

Tale 38.—The Students and the Khoja's Wife.

Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi met a party of students who were walking together.

"Allow me to join you, worthy Effendis," said he, "and if it is agreeable to you we will proceed to my house."

"With the greatest possible pleasure," replied all the students, and the Khoja, beguiling the way with smart sayings and agreeable compliments, led them to the door of his dwelling.

"Be good enough to wait an instant," said the Khoja, and the students waited whilst the Khoja entered his house, where—being in a mischievous mood—he said to his wife, "O wife, go down and send those men away who are hanging about the door. If they want me, say that I have not come home."

So the woman went down and said, "The Khoja has not come home, gentlemen."

"What are you talking about?" cried the students; "he came home with us."

"He's not at home, I tell you," said the Khoja's wife.

"We know that he is," said the students.

"He's not," repeated the woman.

"He is," reiterated the students.



And so they contradicted each other and bandied words, till the Khoja, who was listening from above, put his head out of the window and cried, "Neither you nor my wife have any sense in your heads. Don't you see there are two doors to the place? If he did come in by one he may have gone out again through the other."

Tale 39.—The Khoja and His Guest.

One day a man came to the Khoja and became his guest for the night.

When they had had supper they lay down to sleep.

After a while the light went out; but the Khoja was lazy, and pretended not to observe it, for he did not want to get up.

"Khoja! Khoja!" cried the guest.

"What's the matter?" said the Khoja.

"Don't you see that the light's gone out?" said the guest.

"I see nothing," said the Khoja.

"It's pitch dark," complained the guest: "do get up and see if you have a candle in the house."

"You must be mad," replied the Khoja; "am I a cat? If it is really as dark as you say how can I possibly see whether I have got any or not?"

Tale 40.—The Wise Donkey.

Once upon a time the Khoja was smoking in his garden, when a certain man came to borrow his donkey.

Now this man was cruel to animals, therefore the Khoja did not like to lend him his beast; but as he was also a man of some consideration, the Khoja hesitated to refuse point blank.

"O Effendi!" said he, "I will gladly lend you my donkey, but he is a very wise animal, and knows what is about to befall him. If he foresees good luck for this journey all will be well, and you could not have a better beast. But if he foresees evil he will be of no use, and I should be ashamed to offer him to you."

"Be good enough to inquire of him," said the borrower.

Thereupon the Khoja departed on pretence of taking counsel with his donkey. But he only smoked another pipe in his garden, and then returned to the man, who was anxiously awaiting him, and whom he saluted with all possible politeness, saying—

"May it be far from you, most worthy Effendi, ever to experience such misfortune as my wise donkey foresees on this occasion!"

"What does he foresee?" inquired the borrower.



"Broken knees, sore ribs, aching bones, long marches, and short meals," said the Khoja.

Then the man looked foolish, and sneaked away without reply.

But the Khoja went back to his pipe.

Tale 41.—The Khoja's Horse.

Once upon a time the Khoja was travelling in company with a caravan, when they halted for the night at a certain place, and all the horses were tied up together.

Next morning the Khoja could not for the life of him remember which was his own horse, and he was much afraid of being cheated if he confessed this to the rest.

So, as they were all coming out, he seized his bow and arrow, and aimed among the horses at random.

"Don't shoot!" cried the men; "what is the matter?"

"I am desperate," replied the Khoja; "I am determined to kill somebody's horse, so let every one look to his own."

Laughing at the Khoja's folly, each man untied his own horse as quickly as possible, and took it away.

Then the Khoja knew that the one left was his own.

He at once proceeded to mount, but putting his right foot into the stirrup, he came round with his face to the tail.

"What makes you get up backwards, Khoja?" said his friends.

"It is not I who am in the wrong," said the Khoja, "but the horse that is left-handed."

Tale 42.—The Khoja on the Bey's Horse.

On a certain occasion Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen went to see the Bey, and the Bey invited him to go out hunting.

The Khoja agreed, but when they were about to start he found that he had been mounted on a horse which would not move out of a snail's pace. He said nothing, however, for it is not well to be too quick in seeing affronts.

By and by it began to rain heavily. The Bey and the rest of the party galloped off with all speed towards shelter, and the Khoja was left in the lurch.

When they were all out of sight the Khoja got down and took off all his clothes and folded them neatly together, and put them on the saddle. Then he got up again and sat on his clothes, to keep them dry.

By and by the rain ceased, and the Khoja dressed himself and went leisurely home. When he reached the Bey's palace all the guests were assembled, and presently the Bey perceived him and cried out, "Why, here is the worthy Khoja! And—how extraordinary!—his clothes are not as wet as ours."

"Why do you not praise the horse on which you mounted me?" answered the Khoja; "it carried me through the storm without a single thread of my clothes being wet."

"They must have made a mistake about the horses," thought the Bey to himself, and he invited the Khoja to go hunting on the following day.

The Khoja accepted, and when the time came he was mounted on the horse which the Bey had ridden the day before, and the Bey seated himself on that which had carried the Khoja with dry clothes through the shower.

By and by it began to rain; every one rode off as usual, and this time the Khoja among them.

The Bey, however, could not induce his horse to stir out of a foot's pace, and when he arrived at his palace he was drenched to the skin.

"Wretched man!" he cried to the Khoja, "is it not through you that I was induced to ride this useless horse?"

"Most eminent Bey," replied the Khoja, "the beast has treated you no worse than he served me. But perhaps your Eminence did not think of taking off your clothes and sitting on them?"

Tale 43.—The Khoja's Donkey brays to Good Purpose.

One day the Khoja dismounted at the door of a shop, and threw his woollen pelisse on the donkey's back till he should return. He then went in to buy sweetmeats.

In a few minutes there passed a man, who snatched the woollen pelisse from the donkey's back, and went off with it. At this moment the donkey began to bray.

"O bawl away!" cried the Khoja, who had come out just in time to see his pelisse disappear; "much good that will do."

But as it happened, when the man heard the noise he was afraid of being caught, and, throwing the pelisse back on to the donkey, he ran away as hard as he could.



Tale 44.—The Khoja's Left Leg.

During one very hot season there was a scarcity of water in the city.

One day, the Khoja was performing his religious ablutions: he washed himself all over with the exception of his left leg, but before that could be washed the water was all used up.

When the Khoja began to recite the customary prayers he stood on one leg like a goose.

"O Khoja Effendi!" cried the people, "why do you pray standing on your right leg?"

"I could not pray on my left leg," said the Khoja; "it has not performed the appointed ablutions."

Tale 45.—"Figs Would Be More Acceptable."

Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had some plums, of which he resolved to make a present to the Bey. He therefore took three of them, and putting them on a fine tray, he carried them into the royal presence, and duly offered them for the Bey's acceptance.

Being in a good humour, the Bey took the present in good part, and gave the Khoja several pence in return.

After some days the Khoja thought he would take something else to the Bey, and having some fine large beetroots, he set off as before.

On his way to the palace he met a man, who saluted him.

"What are you doing with all those beetroots?" said he.

"I am about to present them to the Bey," replied the Khoja.

"Figs would be more acceptable, I should think," said the man.

The Khoja pursued his journey, but as he went the man's words troubled him—"Figs would be more acceptable."

At last he perceived a fig-tree by the roadside, so, throwing away all the beetroots, he put two or three figs in their place, and having arrived at the palace, he presented them to the Bey.

But this time the Bey was not in a good humour.

"What madman is this," he cried, "who mocks me by the gift of a few worthless figs? Throw them at his head and drive him away!"

So they pelted the Khoja with his figs, and drove him out. But as he ran, instead of cursing his ill luck, the Khoja gave thanks for his good fortune.

"This is indeed madness," cried the servants of the Bey; "for what, O Khoja, do you return thanks, after this ignominious treatment?"

"O ignorant time-servers," replied the Khoja, "I have good reason to give thanks. For I was bringing beetroots to the Bey—large beetroots, and many of them—and I met a man who persuaded me, saying, "Figs would be more acceptable," so I brought figs; and you have cast them at my head. But there were few of them, and they are soft, and I am none the worse. If, however, I had not by good luck thrown away the beetroots, which are hard, my skull would certainly have been cracked."

Tale 46.—Timur and the One-legged Geese.

One day the Khoja caused a goose to be cooked. He was about to present it to the King.

When it was nicely done he set off with it, but on the road he became very hungry. If the smell of it were to be trusted it was a most delicious bird! At last the Khoja could resist no longer, and he tore off a leg and ate it with much relish.

On arriving in the royal presence he placed the goose before Timur the King, who, when he had examined the Khoja's gift, was exceedingly annoyed.

"This Khoja is deriding me!" said he. And then in a voice of thunder he demanded, "Where is the other leg?"

"The geese of our country are one-legged," replied Nasr-ed-Deen, with much gravity. "If your Majesty does not believe me, be good enough to let your eyes be informed of the truth of what I say by looking at the geese at yonder spring."

As it happened there were a number of geese at the fountain, and they were all standing on one leg.

The King could not help laughing, but he called to his drummers and said, "March towards yonder fountain, and lay your drumsticks well about your drums."

The drummers forthwith began to drum, and they rattled away so heartily that all the geese put down their legs and ran off in alarm.

"O Khoja!" cried Timur, "how is this? All your geese have become two-legged!"

"It is the effect of your Majesty's wonderful drumsticks," replied the Khoja. "If you were to eat one of them, you yourself would undoubtedly become four-legged."

Tale 47.—The Khoja Rewards the Frogs.

Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had been riding his donkey for some miles. It was very hot, and the Khoja dismounted to ease his beast. At this moment they came within sight of a pond, and the donkey smelling the water set off towards it as hard as he could canter.

The side of the pond was very steep, and in its haste the donkey would probably have fallen in, but that the frogs set up such a terrific croaking at its approach that the beast, in alarm, turned sharply round, and was caught by its master.

The Khoja was not wanting in grateful and liberal feelings.

"Well done, my little pond-birds!" said he, throwing a handful of coins into the water. "Divide that among you to buy sweetmeats with."

Tale 48.—The Khoja reproaches his Cock.

Once upon a time the Khoja was carrying his fowls in a cage to the city for sale.

As he went along he began to feel sorry for them.

"O my soul!" said he, "these poor fowls are sadly imprisoned. I will let them go a little." So he opened the cage, and the birds scrambled out. One ran one way, and another another; but the Khoja contrived to keep up with the cock, which he drove before him with his stick, the poor bird waddling hither and thither, and fluttering from side to side with distress and indecision pitiable to behold.

On seeing this the Khoja began to reproach him. "You never thought it would come to this, my fine bird, did you?" said he. "And yet what a wiseacre you are! You know when it's day better than the sun himself, and can crow loud enough for all the world to hear your wisdom."

The poor cock made no reply, but waddled on with hoarse cries and flapping wings.

"You're a poor prophet!" said the Khoja. "You know that it is morning in the middle of the night: how is it you could not foresee that you were to be driven to market? Thus—and thus!" And turning him at every corner by which he would escape, the Khoja drove the distracted cock into the city.

Tale 49.—Hare-soup.

One day there came a man from the village who made the Khoja a present of a hare.

The Khoja brought him in, treating him with all honour and hospitality, and gave him some rich and excellent soup.

In a week's time the man called again; but the Khoja had forgotten him, and said, "Who are you?"

"I am the man who brought the hare," he replied. The Khoja entertained him as before, though the soup was not quite so rich.

After a few days came some men who desired to be guests to the Khoja.

"Who are you?" said he.

"We are neighbours of the man who brought the hare," said they.

This time the soup was certainly thin, but that did not hinder the arrival of some fresh guests in a very few days.

"Who are you?" said the Khoja.

"We are neighbours of the neighbours of the man who brought the hare," was the reply.

"You are welcome," said their host; and he set a bowl of clear water before them.

"What is this, O Khoja?" cried the men.

"It is soup of soup of soup of the hare-soup," answered the Khoja.

Tale 50.—The Khoja out Fishing.

One day the Khoja accompanied some men who were going a-fishing, and he became much excited in watching the sport.

Suddenly, as they cast the net into the sea, the Khoja threw himself into it.

"What can you be thinking of, Effendi?" cried the fishermen.

"I forgot," said the Khoja; "I was thinking I was a fish."

Tale 51.—A Desire Satisfied.

Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had an old cow with horns so exceedingly broad that one could certainly sit between them if he had a mind to do so.

"I should very much like to try," the Khoja kept thinking; "I should exceedingly like to sit for once between those horns."

The notion haunted him, and he kept saying to himself, "I certainly should like it, just for once."

One day the cow came before the house, and after a while lay down.

"The opportunity has arrived," cried the Khoja, and running out, he seated himself between the cow's horns. "It is just as I thought," said he; but as he spoke the cow got up, and tossed the Khoja violently to the ground.

The Khoja was stunned, and when his wife hastened to the spot she found him lying senseless. After some time he opened his eyes, and perceived his wife weeping near him.

"O wife!" said the Khoja, "weep not; I am not less fortunate than other men. I have suffered for it, but I have had my desire."

Tale 52.—The Khoja and the Incompetent Barber.

On one occasion the Khoja was shaved by a most incompetent barber. At every stroke the man cut his head with the razor, and kept sticking on bits of cotton to stop the bleeding.