answered the weaver. So the next morning the seven weavers
set out to go to the village where they could buy what they wanted. On
the way they had to cross a ravine which lately had been full of water,
but now was quite dry. The weavers, however, were accustomed to swim
over this ravine; therefore, regardless of the fact that this time it
was dry, they stripped, and, tying their clothes on their heads, they
proceeded to swim across the dry sand and rocks that formed the bed of
the ravine. Thus they got to the other side without further damage than
bruised knees and elbows, and as soon as they were over, one of them
began to count the party to make sure that all were safe there. He
counted all except himself, and then cried out that somebody was
missing! This set each of them counting; but each made the same mistake
of counting all except himself, so that they became certain that one
of their party was missing! They ran up and down the bank of the ravine
wringing their hands in great distress and looking for signs of their
lost comrade. There a farmer found them and asked what was the matter.
'Alas!' said one, 'seven of us started from the other bank and one must
have been drowned on the crossing, as we can only find six remaining!'
The farmer eyed them a minute, and then, picking up his stick, he dealt
each a sounding blow, counting, as he did so, 'One! two! three!' and so
on up to the seven. When the weavers found that there were seven of them
they were overcome with gratitude to one whom they took for a magician
as he could thus make seven out of an obvious six.

The Clever Cat

[From the Pushto.]

Once upon a time there lived an old man who dwelt with his son in a
small hut on the edge of the plain. He was very old, and had worked very
hard, and when at last he was struck down by illness he felt that he
should never rise from his bed again.

So, one day, he bade his wife summon their son, when he came back from
his journey to the nearest town, where he had been to buy bread.

'Come hither, my son,' said he; 'I know myself well to be dying, and I
have nothing to leave you but my falcon, my cat and my greyhound; but
if you make good use of them you will never lack food. Be good to your
mother, as you have been to me. And now farewell!'

Then he turned his face to the wall and died.

There was great mourning in the hut for many days, but at length the son
rose up, and calling to his greyhound, his cat and