t, and then he addressed it as follows:

"Oh, Allah! The Allah of Allahs. There is but one Allah, and thou art
He. I have slain Job, David, Solomon, Jesus, and Mohammed for the
folly that they have brought into the world. Thou, God, art all
powerful. All men are thy children, thou createst them and bringest
them into the world. The thoughts that they think are thy thoughts. If
all these men have brought all this evil into the world, it is thy
fault. Shall I punish them and allow thee to go unhurt? No. I must
punish thee also," and he raised his sword to strike.

As the sword circled in the air the Hodja, secreted in the tree,
forgot the fear in which he stood of the Dervish. In the excitement of
the moment he cried out in a loud tone of voice: "Stop! Stop! He owes
me one thousand piasters."

The Dervish reeled and fell senseless to the ground. The Hodja was
overcome at his own words and trembled with fear, convinced that his
last hour had arrived. The Dervish lay stretched upon his back on the
grass like one dead. At last the Hodja took courage. Breaking a twig
from off the tree, he threw it down upon the Dervish's face, but the
Dervish made no sign. The Hodja took more courage, removed one of his
heavy outer shoes and threw it on the outstretched figure of the
Dervish, but still the Dervish lay motionless. The Hodja carefully
climbed down the tree, gave the body of the Dervish a kick, and
climbed back again, and still the Dervish did not stir. At length the
Hodja descended from the tree and placed his ear to the Dervish's
heart. It did not beat. The Dervish was dead.

"Ah, well," said the Hodja, "at least I shall not starve. I will take
his garments and sell them and buy me some bread."

The Hodja commenced to remove the Dervish's garments. As he took off
his belt he found that it was heavy. He opened it, and saw that it
contained gold. He counted the gold and found that it was exactly one
thousand piasters.

The Hodja turned his face toward Mecca and raising his eyes to heaven
said, "Oh God, you have kept your promise, but," he added, "not before
I saved your life."

BETTER IS THE FOLLY OF WOMAN THAN THE WISDOM OF MAN

There lived in Constantinople an old Hodja, a learned man, who had a
son. The boy followed in his father's footsteps, went every day to the
Mosque Aya Sofia, seated himself in a secluded spot, to the left of
the pillar bearing the impress of the Conqueror's hand, and engaged in
the stu