The whole tree was rustling faintly, although there was no wind. It tinkled delicately and plaintively, as though it were made of glass; it seemed to feel the approach of Giaffar. "Youth!"--said the old man, "pluck whichever of these fruits thou wilt, and know that if thou shalt pluck and eat the white one, thou shalt become more wise than all men; if thou shalt pluck and eat the red one, thou shalt become as rich as the Hebrew Rothschild; if thou shalt pluck and eat the yellow one, thou shalt please old women. Decide! ... and delay not. In an hour the fruits will fade, and the tree itself will sink into the dumb depths of the earth!" Giaffar bowed his head and thought.--"What am I to do?" he articulated in a low tone, as though arguing with himself.--"If one becomes too wise, he will not wish to live, probably; if he becomes richer than all men, all will hate him; I would do better to pluck and eat the third, the shrivelled apple!" And so he did; and the old man laughed a toothless laugh and said: "Oh, most wise youth! Thou hast chosen the good part!--What use hast thou for the white apple? Thou art wiser than Solomon as thou art.--And neither dost thou need the red apple.... Even without it thou shalt be rich. Only no one will be envious of thy wealth." "Inform me, old man," said Giaffar, with a start, "where the respected mother of our God-saved Caliph dwelleth?" The old man bowed to the earth, and pointed out the road to the youth. Who in Bagdad doth not know the sun of the universe, the great, the celebrated Giaffar? April, 1878. TWO FOUR-LINE STANZAS There existed once a city whose inhabitants were so passionately fond of poetry that if several weeks passed and no beautiful new verses had made their appearance they regarded that poetical dearth as a public calamity. At such times they donned their worst garments, sprinkled ashes on their heads, and gathering in throngs on the public squares, they shed tears, and murmured bitterly against the Muse for having abandoned them. On one such disastrous day the young poet Junius, presented himself on the square, filled to overflowing with the sorrowing populace. With swift steps he ascended a specially-constructed tribune and made a sign that he wished to recite a poem. The lictors immediately brandished their staves. "Silence! Attention!" they shouted in stentorian tones. "Friends! Comrades!" began Junius, in a loud, but not altogether firm voice: "Friends! Comrades! Ye lovers of verses! Admirers of all that is graceful and fair! Be not cast down by a moment of dark sadness! The longed-for instant will come ... and light will disperse the gloom!"[70] Junius ceased speaking ... and in reply to him, from all points of the square, clamour, whistling, and laughter arose. All the faces turned toward him flamed with indignation, all eyes flashed with wrath, all hands were uplifted, menaced, were clenched into fists.