The legends of Samarkand which these performers have at their finger-ends are very curious. The popular hero is a Bokhāran Amīr named `Abdullah, who is credited with most of the ancient buildings of the provinces. Once, so the story goes, he marched against this city with a great army, to crush a rebellious governor, but was foiled by its triple ramparts. He sat down before it and waited in vain for the surrender. At last his troops began to suffer the pangs of hunger; and the Amīr himself found provisions running short. One evening, while wandering _incognito_ in the suburbs, he came upon an old woman preparing her evening porridge, which smelt so good that the Amīr cast his dignity to the winds and begged permission to share the repast. It was granted, but his impatience did not permit him to wait till the smoking mess was properly served. He thrust a spoon into the pot and conveyed the contents to his mouth, burning that sensitive organ severely. His hostess roared with laughter at his grimaces, and said: “Now thou resemblest `Abdullah! Hadst thou taken the porridge from the edge of the dish, thou wouldst not have suffered thus. So, if our Amīr had begun by closely investing Samarkand, and allowed the citizens’ passions to be cooled by hunger, he would not have burnt his fingers as he has done.” The sovereign took the jest to heart, and starved out the rebels. In gratitude to his monitress, he bestowed on her a strip of land on either bank of the Ak Daryā in fee simple. A lofty hill called Chūpān Ātā, which commands Samarkand on the east, is the subject of another legend. According to tradition, a cruel king invaded Samarkand and pitched his tents on a plain where Chūpān Ātā now rears its head. Here he waited for three days in order to give the people time to concentrate with their treasures within the city walls. The Samarkandis were then heathen, but the imminence of peril made them turn to the true God. From the ruler downwards all ascended the flat house-roofs and wrestled in earnest prayer for deliverance. Their sight fell on the camp of the enemy, glittering with lights and resounding with martial music. The besieged trembled, for they knew that the morrow was the day fixed for the assault. When the sun rose all was still, and instead of a plain covered, as far as the eye could range, with tents, a mountain raised its head heavenwards. They timidly ventured beyond the walls, but the only trace of life was a husbandman in strange attire sleeping with a spade for his pillow. On being waked he rubbed his eyes, stared around him with astonishment, and asked where he was. Learning that he was in the heart of Asia, he told his interlocutors that he was a Syrian. On the previous evening he had betaken himself to the mountain-side with his spade, for on the morrow his turn for irrigation would come round. Spent with fatigue he had fallen asleep and been wafted 1500 miles, with his farm and