“You ain’t in society, you know, and you don’t really need all you’ve got. Won’t you be good, and let me have ten of your camels?” “Well,” the dervish says, “I don’t know but what you say is reasonable enough.” So he done it, and they separated and the dervish started off again with his forty. But pretty soon here comes the camel-driver bawling after him again, and whines and slobbers around and begs another ten off of him, saying thirty camel loads of treasures was enough to see a dervish through, because they live very simple, you know, and don’t keep house, but board around and give their note. But that warn’t the end yet. That ornery hound kept coming and coming till he had begged back all the camels and had the whole hundred. Then he was satisfied, and ever so grateful, and said he wouldn’t ever forgit the dervish as long as he lived, and nobody hadn’t been so good to him before, and liberal. So they shook hands good-bye, and separated and started off again. But do you know, it warn’t ten minutes till the camel-driver was unsatisfied again—he was the lowdownest reptyle in seven counties—and he come a-running again. And this time the thing he wanted was to get the dervish to rub some of the salve on his other eye. “Why?” said the dervish. “Oh, you know,” says the driver. “Know what?” “Well, you can’t fool me,” says the driver. “You’re trying to keep back something from me, you know it mighty well. You know, I reckon, that if I had the salve on the other eye I could see a lot more things that’s valuable. Come—please put it on.” The dervish says: “I wasn’t keeping anything back from you. I don’t mind telling you what would happen if I put it on. You’d never see again. You’d be stone-blind the rest of your days.” But do you know that beat wouldn’t believe him. No, he begged and begged, and whined and cried, till at last the dervish opened his box and told him to put it on, if he wanted to. So the man done it, and sure enough he was as blind as a bat in a minute. Then the dervish laughed at him and mocked at him and made fun of him; and says: “Good-bye—a man that’s blind hain’t got no use for jewelry.” And he cleared out with the hundred camels, and left that man to wander around poor and miserable and friendless the rest of his days in the Desert. Jim said he’d bet it was a lesson to him. “Yes,” Tom says, “and like a considerable many lessons a body gets. They ain’t no account, because the thing don’t ever happen the same way again—and can’t. The time Hen Scovil fell down the chimbly and crippled his back for life, everybody said it would be a lesson to him. What kind of a lesson? How was he going to use it? He couldn’t climb chimblies no more, and he hadn’t no more backs to break.” “All de same, Mars Tom, dey _is_ sich a thing as learnin’ by expe’ence. De Good Book say de burnt chile shun de fire.”