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the lot of poets； drunks； hashish addicts and dervishes and others who

cunningly charmed the proprietor into allowing them to join this mirthful

and　witty　group。　I　explained　how　confusion　reigned　as　soon　as　the　raid　began。

When the crowd of onlookers gathered by the proprietor for some bawdy

entertainment　began　to　leave　in　a　panic；　no　one　thought　to　mount　a　defense

of　the　establishment　or　of　the　poor　old　storyteller　dressed　as　a　woman。　Did　I

grieve　over　this　calamity？　“Yes！　I；　Mustafa　the　Painter；　also　known　as　”Stork；“

who　have　truly　devoted　my　entire　life　to　illumination；　find　it　necessary；　each

night；　to　sit　together　with　my　artist　brethren　and　converse；　joke；　ridicule；　pay

pliments； recite poems and speak in innuendos；” I confessed； looking

directly　into　the　eyes　of　dim…witted　Butterfly；　shrouded　in　the　air　of　a　plump；

moist…eyed　boy　plagued　by　envy。　Even　as　an　apprentice；　this　Butterfly　of　ours；

whose　eyes　were　still　as　lovely　as　a　child’s；　was　a　sensitive；　fine…skinned　beauty。

Again；　upon　their　asking　me；　I　described　how　on　the　second　day　that　the

storyteller； may his soul find peace in Heaven； wandering the city and

neighborhoods began plying his trade in the coffeehouse； one of the

miniaturists；　perhaps　under　the　influence　of　coffee；　hung　a　picture　on　the　wall

to　be　amusing；　the　glib　storyteller　took　notice　and；　as　a　joke　of　his　own；　began

a monologue as if he were the dog in the picture； which met with great

success；　thenceforth；　every　night　he　continued　to　feature　pictures　drawn　by　the

master　miniaturists　and　to　tell　witty　tales　they