IN the great days of Haroun-al-Raschid, when the minarets of Bagdad were sewn together against the sky like a gold embroidery on blue canvas, a certain merchant, whose name has unhappily not been preserved, was entering at nightfall with his camels and his asses through the Gold East Gate. The beggars, as was their custom, crowded round with shrill cries, extolling the merchant’s virtues and their own miseries, and suggesting that the former might reasonably be expected to mitigate the latter. “In the name of the All-Compassionate, the All-Merciful,” they murmured musically. But the merchant only wrapped his cloak round him closer, saying in a harsh voice, “Heaven helps those that help themselves.”

At this moment one of the merchant’s asses stumbled and beautiful red coins ran in the gutters under the pale yellow moon. With cries even more musical the beggars—not excluding those lame by profession—threw themselves upon the gold. “Sons of Shaitan,” roared the merchant, “I will have you all strung up to the city gates by your toes and ears. I will have you flayed with red pepper. I will——”

“You surprise me, oh merchant,” said a poet who had been a witness of the whole scene. “Is it no longer your view then that heaven helps those that help themselves?”

“Do you not see,” screamed the merchant, “that it is an ass that helps them?” “Does that surprise you,” inquired the poet, going on his way, “I gather from your appearance of wealth that heaven has already helped you.”