THE YARNS THAT ABDUL TELLS
One of the chief pastimes of the Turks who live behind the black and white sandbags opposite (writes an officer who knows them intimately) is that of listening to stories told by the storytellers in the cafés of the Asia Minor villages. The hero of these stories is very often a certain Nastradi Hodja (who really existed at one time, and made a reputation by his wit as well as through his stupidity). Here is an example of the sort of story about Nastradi which especially pleases the Turk:
Nastradi Hodja’s wife woke up one night through hearing a noise. She got up, and going out on to the landing on the upper floor, outside her bedroom, called out:
“Nastradi, what was that noise?”
Nastradi’s voice came up from below. “Don’t pay any attention to it,” he said. “It was only my shirt that tumbled down the stairs.”
“Does a shirt make such a noise?” she asked.
“No,” was the reply; “but I was in it.”
A. P. M.