CHAPTER I
"Youth asked the lark,
'Why dost thou sing
When clouds are darkling?'
Replied the lark,
'Behind the dark
The light is sparkling.'
Youth begged the Hours
Death not to bring
Though clouds were lowering.
Replied the Hours,
'In Heaven's bowers
Roses are flowering.'"
"To-day I will shave," said Babar with conviction; and his long, fine fingers felt his rather ragged young beard reflectively.
He was altogether a bit ragged after his long wanderings. But he had come back from them wiser, steadier in mind, still stronger in body. The record of years of clean, hard living showed in his bright hazel eyes, and the general alertness of his lithe young body.
But he was ragged! The brilliant June sunshine poured down on the sorry encampment set out on the summer pasturage of the high alps of Ilâk, and revealed the rents and patches of the two tents which were all that Babar possessed; his own, terribly tattered in its royalty, reserved for his mother's use; a common felt tilt, flexible in its cross-poles, for his own.