In a great city of China, there once lived a window and her only son, Aladdin. Their home was a poor little hut in a poor and crowded part of the city. All day Aladdin's mother scrubbed and cooked and spun flax into thread for a few miserable pennis. Although he was fiften years old, Aladdin did nothing to help his mother. He roamed the streets an the bazaars, returing home only of supper. And yet his mother never scolded him. She loved her son, and was sure that some day he would be a great and wealthy man.