Genre Short Story. Page - 16

olmasterj. Story of the Three Sisters and Their Mother theSultanah3. History of the Kazi Who Bare a Babe4. Tale of the Kazi and the Bhang-Eatera. History of the Bhang-Eater and His Wifeb. How Drummer Abu Kasim Became a Kazic. Story of the Kazi and His Slipperd. Tale of Mahmud the Persian and the Kurd Sharpere. Tale of the Sultan and the Poor Man Who Brought To HimFruitf. The Fruit-Seller's Taleg. Tale of the Sultan and His Three Sons and theEnchanting Birdh. Adventure of the Fruit-Seller and the Concubinei. Story of the King of Al-Yaman and His Three Sons andthe Enchanting Birdj. History of the First Larrikink. History of the Second Larrikinl. History of the Third Larrikinm. Story of a Sultan of Al-Hind and His Son Mohammedn. Tale of the Fisherman and His Sono. Tale of the Third Larrikin Concerning Himself5. History of Abu Niyyah a

ychical experiences which had befallen him. I at least was sound in nerve and brain, and it was with something of the pleasurable thrill of anticipation with which the sportsman takes his position beside the haunt of his game that I shut the laboratory door behind me, and partially undressing, lay down upon the rug-covered settee.

It was not an ideal atmosphere for a bedroom. The air was heavy with many chemical odours, that of methylated spirit predominating. Nor were the decorations of my chamber very sedative. The odious line of glass jars with their relics of disease and suffering stretched in front of my very eyes. There was no blind to the window, and a three-quarter moon streamed its white light into the room, tracing a silver square with filigree lattices upon the opposite wall. When I had extinguished my candle this one bright patch in the midst of the general gloom had certainly an eerie and discomposing aspect. A rigid and absolute silence reigned throughout the old house, so that the low sw

re whitening the hilltops. The air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. It was wet snow, half rain, and the flakes were large and soggy. At first they melted as soon as they came in contact with the earth, but ever more fell, covering the ground, putting out the fire, spoiling his supply of moss-fuel.

This was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumble onward, he knew not where. He was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with Bill and the cache under the upturned canoe by the river Dease. He was mastered by the verb "to eat." He was hunger- mad. He took no heed of the course he pursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. He felt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. But it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. He found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it, which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily

occasion for us to be afraid of an angel, and he liked us, anyway. He went on chatting as simply and unaffectedly as ever; and while he talked he made a crowd of little men and women the size of your finger, and they went diligently to work and cleared and leveled off a space a couple of yards square in the grass and began to build a cunning little castle in it, the women mixing the mortar and carrying it up the scaffoldings in pails on their heads, just as our work-women have always done, and the men laying the courses of masonry--five hundred of these toy people swarming briskly about and working diligently and wiping the sweat off their faces as natural as life. In the absorbing interest of watching those five hundred little people make the castle grow step by step and course by course, and take shape and symmetry, that feeling and awe soon passed away and we were quite comfortable and at home again. We asked if we might make some people, and he said yes, and told Seppi to make some cannon for the walls, a

Governor in his Ramillies wig, his glasses, and his powdering-gown still seated sedately at the lonely table with his reeking pipe and six black bottles by his side.

"I have drunk with the Governor of St. Kitt's when he was sick," said he, "and God forbid that I should ever try to keep pace with him when he is well."

The voyage of the Morning Star was a successful one, and in about three weeks she was at the mouth of the British Channel. From the first day the infirm Governor had begun to recover his strength, and before they were half-way across the Atlantic he was, save only for his eyes, as well as any man upon the ship. Those who uphold the nourishing qualities of wine might point to him in triumph, for never a night passed that he did not repeat the performance of his first one. And yet he would be out upon deck in the early morning as fresh and brisk as the best of them, peering about with his weak eyes, and asking questions about the sails and the rigging, for he was anxious to l

on of their vast numbers, and contriving in some way or other to represent to the imagination a new and mighty power, a power, moreover, not altogether friendly to us.

Great revelations of nature, of course, never fail to impress in one way or another, and I was no stranger to moods of the kind. Mountains overawe and oceans terrify, while the mystery of great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own. But all these, at one point or another, somewhere link on intimately with human life and human experience. They stir comprehensible, even if alarming, emotions. They tend on the whole to exalt.

With this multitude of willows, however, it was something far different, I felt. Some essence emanated from them that besieged the heart. A sense of awe awakened, true, but of awe touched somewhere by a vague terror. Their serried ranks, growing everywhere darker about me as the shadows deepened, moving furiously yet softly in the wind, woke in me the curious and unwelcome suggestion that we had trespasse

By W. A. Clouston.

The Tale of Zayn Al-AsnamAlaeddin; or, The Wonderful LampKhudadad and His BrothersThe Story of the Blind Man, Baba AbdullahHistory of Sisi Nu'umanHistory of Khwajah Hasan Al-HabbalAli Baba and the Forty ThievesAli Khwajah and the Merchant of BaghdadPrince Ahmad and the Fairy Peri-BanuThe Two Sisters Who Envied Their Cadette

Additional Notes:--

The Tale of Zayn Al-AsnamAlaeddin; or, The Wonderful LampAli Baba and the Forty ThievesPrince Ahmad and the Fairy Peri-Banu

The Translator's Foreword.

The peculiar proceedings of the Curators, Bodleian Library, 1Oxford, of which full particulars shall be given in due time,have dislocated the order of my volumes. The Prospectus hadpromised that Tome III. should contain detached extracts from theMS. known as the Wortley-Montague, and that No. IV. and part ofNo. V. should comprise a reproduction of the ten Tales (oreleven, including "The Princess of Daryß

men of your cruelties to him, brought him away from the swamp by the very trail by which we came, and murdered him here in the night."

Ezra cringed and snarled.

"You can not prove this lie!"

Kane spoke a few words to an agile villager. The youth clambered up the rotting bole of the tree and from a crevice, high up, dragged something that fell with a clatter at the feet of the miser. Ezra went limp with a terrible shriek.

The object was a man's skeleton, the skull cleft.

"You--how knew you this? You are Satan!" gibbered old Ezra.

Kane folded his arms.

"The thing I, fought last night told me this thing as we reeled in battle, and I followed it to this tree. For the fiend is Gideon's ghost."

Ezra shrieked again and fought savagely.

"You knew," said Kane sombrely, "you knew what things did these deeds. You feared the ghost the maniac, and that is why you chose to leave his body on the fen instead of concealing it in the swamp. For you knew the ghost

he Chief of Police47. Al-Malik Al-Nasir and the Three Chiefs of Policea. Story of the Chief of Police of Cairob. Story of the Chief of the Bulak Policec. Story of the Chief of the Old Cairo Police48. The Thief and the Shroff49. The Chief of the Kus Police and the Sharper50. Ibrahim Bin Al-Mahdi and the Merchant's Sister51. The Woman Whose Hands were Cut Off For Giving Alms to thePoor52. The Devout Israelite53. Abu Hassan Al-Ziyadi and the Khorasan54. The Poor Man and His Friend in Need55. The Ruined Man Who became Rich Again Through A Dream56. Caliph Al-Mutawakkil and His Concubine Mahbubah57. Wardan the Butcher; His Adventure With the Lady and the Bear58. The King's Daughter and the Ape

The Book of the Thousand Nights and A Night

Ni'amah bin al-Rabi'a and Naomi his Slave-girl.

There lived once in the city of Cufa[FN#1] a man called Al-Rabí'abin Hátim, who was one of the chief men of the town, a wealth

athlete of Olympic proportions to make up for the love he wouldn't feel for her. Too much trouble for the few weeks before her presence began to drain him of everything he held dear. Then she'd be gone, and the bar would be raised another notch for whomever came next, and where would it all lead him? A woman with superhuman flexibility and the perverse nature of an Indian God, perhaps. A woman made of fingertips and tongues, with no sense of shame.

And he still wouldn't love her.

He sat at his kitchen table, sipped coffee, and stared over his newspaper at the busy street beyond his window. There was no way around it. He couldn't face the real world. He had lived too long with reality. He raised a hand to his neck and ran fingertips along the network of tiny puncture marks criss-crossing the skin at the base of his jaw. He would have to visit Sir Million.

He plucked a set of keys from the hook by the phone and rubbed his thumb across the silver dog tag. There was a time when he could rejoice in the sensation the stamped letters made under his thumb, delight in the ripple of cold, roll