The Moon in the Well

Late one night, Mulla Nasruddin went to the well in his courtyard to draw some water. He leaned over the edge, looked down, and gasped.

There, at the bottom of the well, shining in the dark water, was the moon.

“Oh no,” said Nasruddin. “The poor moon has fallen into my well! If I don't get it out, there will be no moon tomorrow night, and everybody will blame me.”

He ran and fetched a long rope with a big iron hook on the end. He lowered it down into the well, swinging it this way and that, trying to catch the moon. Splash, splash. At last the hook caught on something hard, a stone stuck in the wall of the well.

“Got you!” cried Nasruddin. He planted his feet, took the rope in both hands and pulled with all his might. He pulled and he heaved and he grunted. The stone held fast. He pulled harder still, and suddenly the hook tore free.

Nasruddin flew backwards and landed flat on his back in the courtyard with a great thump.

For a moment he lay there, dazed, looking straight up at the sky. And there, high above him, floating calmly over the rooftops, was the moon, bright and round and perfectly safe.

Nasruddin smiled with enormous satisfaction.

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, “that was hard work, and I have a bump the size of an egg. But it was worth it. The moon is back where it belongs.”