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Eastern Stories and Legends

Eastern Stories and Legends

By

Marie L. Shedlock

Foreword By

Prof. T. W. Rhys Davids

Introduction By

Annie Carroll Moore

Of The New York Public Library

New York

E. P. Dutton & Company

681 Fifth Avenue

1920

FOREWORD

I recollect riding late one night along the high-road from Galle to Colombo. The road skirts the shore. On the left hand the long breakers of the Indian Ocean broke in ripples on the rocks in the many little bays. On the right an endless vista of tall cocoanut palms waved their top-knots over a park-like expanse of grass, and the huts of the peasantry were visible here and there beneath the trees. In the distance a crowd had gathered on the sward, either seated on the grass or leaning against the palms. I turned aside—no road was wanted—to see what brought them there that moonlight night.

The villagers had put an oval platform under the trees. On it were seated yellow robed monks with palm-leaf books on their laps. One was standing and addressing the folk, who were listening to Bana, that is “The Word”—discourses, dialogues, legends, or stories from the Pali Canon. The stories were the well-known Birth-stories, that is the ancient fables and fairy-tales common to the Aryan race which had been consecrated, as it were, by the hero in each, whether man or animal, being identified with the Buddha in a former birth. To these wonderful stories the simple peasantry, men, women and children, clad in their best and brightest, listen the livelong night with unaffected delight, chatting pleasantly now and again with their neighbors; rising quietly and leaving for a time, and returning at their will, and indulging all the while in the mild narcotic of the betel-leaf, their stores of which afford a constant occasion for acts of polite good-fellowship. Neither preachers nor hearers may have that deep sense of evil in the world and in themselves, nor that high resolve to battle with and overcome it, which animated some of the first disciples. They all think they are earning “merit” by their easy service. But there is at least, at these full-moon festivals, a genuine feeling of human kindness, in harmony alike with the teachings of Gotama and with the gentle beauty of those moonlit scenes.[^[1]]

[1]. See Rhys Davids’ Buddhism (S.P.C.K.), pp. 57, 58.

It is not only under the palm groves of the South that these stories are a perennial delight. Wherever Buddhism has gone they have gone with it. They are known and loved on the plains of Central Asia, in the valleys of Kashmir and Afghanistan, on the cold tablelands of Nepal, Tartary and Tibet, through the vast regions of India and China, in the islands of Japan and the Malay archipelago, and throughout the jungles of Siam and Annam.

And not only so. Soldiers of Alexander who had settled in the East, wandering merchants of many nations and climes, crusading knights and hermits who had mixed with Eastern folk, brought the stories from East to West. They were very popular in Europe in the Middle Ages; and were used, more especially by the clergy, as the subjects of numerous homilies, romances, anecdotes, poems and edifying plays and mysteries. The character of the hero of them in his last or former births appealed so strongly to the sympathies, and especially to the religious sympathies, of mediæval Christians that the Buddha (under another name) was included, and has ever since remained, in the list of canonized saints both in the Roman and Greek Churches; and a collection of these and similar stories—wrongly but very naturally ascribed to a famous story-teller of the ancient Greeks—has become the common property, the household literature, of all the nations of Europe; and, under the name of Æsop’s Fables, has handed down, as a first moral lesson-book for our children in the West, tales first invented to please and to instruct our far-off cousins in the distant East.

So the story of the migration of the stories is the most marvelous story of them all.[^[2]] And, strange to say, in spite of the enormous outpouring of more modern tales, these old ones have not, even yet, lost their charm. I used to tell them by the hour together, to mixed audiences, and never found them fail. Out of the many hundred Birth-stories there are only a small proportion that are suitable for children. Miss Shedlock, so well known on both sides of the Atlantic for her skill and judgment in this regard, has selected those she deems most suitable; and, so far as I can judge, has succeeded very admirably in adapting them for the use of children and of teachers alike. Much depends, no doubt, upon the telling. Could Miss Shedlock herself be the teller, there would be little doubt of the success. But I know from my own experience that less able story-tellers have no cause at all to be discouraged.

[2]. For the details of this story the introduction to my Buddhist Birth Stories may be consulted; and for the history of the Jâtakas in India the chapter on that subject in my Buddhist India.

The reason is, indeed, not far to seek. The stories are not ordinary ones. It is not on sharpness of repartee, or on striking incidents, that their charm depends. These they have sometimes. But their attraction lies rather in a unique mixture of subtle humor, cunning make-belief, and earnestness; in the piquancy of the contrast between the humorous incongruities and impossibilities of the details, and the real serious earnestness, never absent but always latent, of the ethical tone. They never raise a boisterous laugh: only a quiet smile of delighted appreciation; and they leave a pleasant aroma behind them. To the child-mind the impossibilities are no impossibilities at all, they are merely delightful. And these quaint old-world stories will continue to appeal to children, young and old, as they have done, the world over, through the long centuries of the past.

T. W. Rhys Davids.

EDITOR’S PREFACE

These stories of the Buddha-Rebirths are not for one age or for one country, but for all time, and for the whole world. Their philosophy might be incorporated into the tenets of faith of a League of Nations without destroying any national forms of religious teaching. On the other hand those who prefer the foundation of more orthodox views will be astonished to find their ethics are identical with many of those inculcated in the stories: here we find condemnation of hypocrisy, cruelty, selfishness, and vice of every kind and a constant appeal to Love, Pity, Honesty, loftiness of purpose and breadth of vision. And should we reject such teachings because they were given to the World more than 2,000 years ago? Since it is wise to take into consideration the claims and interests of the passing hour it is well to re-introduce these stories at a moment when, perhaps more than ever before, East and West are struggling to arrive at a clearer understanding of one another.

In Tagore’s essay on the relation of the Individual to the Universe, he says: “In the West the prevalent feeling is that Nature belongs exclusively to inanimate things and to beasts; that there is a sudden unaccountable break where human nature begins. According to it, everything that is low in the scale of beings is merely nature, and whatever has the stamp of perfection on it, intellectual or moral, is human nature. It is like dividing the bud and the blossom into two separate categories and putting their grace to the credit of two different and antithetical principles. But the Indian mind never has any hesitation in acknowledging its kinship with nature, its unbroken relation with all.”

This is perhaps the best summing up of the value of this collection. Since the publication of the book in 1910, I have had many opportunities of testing the value of the dramatic appeal in these stories both for adults and boys and girls of adolescent age. When presented at this impressionable period, the inner meaning will sink more deeply into their minds than the same truths presented in a more direct and didactic fashion.

I am greatly indebted to Professor Rhys Davids, not only because he has placed the material of his translations from the Pali at my disposal, but also because of his unfailing kindness and help in directing my work. I am fortunate to have had the restraining influence of so great a scholar so that I might not lose the Indian atmosphere and line of thought which is of such value in these stories.

I most gratefully acknowledge my indebtedness to the Cambridge Press, by whose courtesy I have been able to include several of the stories published in their volumes.

I present here a selection from over 500 stories.

Marie L. Shedlock.

Cambridge, Massachusetts.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

To this new and enlarged edition of Eastern Stories and Legends, Miss Shedlock has brought years of dramatic experience in the telling of stories to children and grown people in England and America, and united with it a discriminating selection from the work of a great Oriental scholar.

The result is a book of intrinsic merit for the general reading of children and of great practical value to all who are concerned with moral or ethical training.

“I feel a great joy in what these stories can unconsciously bring to the reader,” says Miss Shedlock in a personal letter, “the mere living among the stories for the past few weeks has given me a sense of calm and permanence which it is difficult to maintain under present outward conditions.”

I have observed with growing interest, extending over a period of years, the effect of such stories as “The Folly of Panic” and “The Tree Spirit” upon audiences of adolescent boys and girls in the public schools, public libraries, social settlements, Sunday schools and private schools, I have visited with Miss Shedlock. There is in Miss Shedlock’s rendering something more than a suggestion of kinship with Nature and the attributes of animal life. The story is told in an atmosphere of spiritual actuality remote from our everyday experience yet confirming its eternal truths.

My familiarity with the earlier edition of Eastern Stories and Legends and my personal introduction of “The True Spirit of a Festival Day” and other stories to audiences of parents and teachers, enables me to speak with confidence of the value of the book in an enlarged and more popular form.

In rearranging and expanding her selection of stories Miss Shedlock has wisely freed the book from limitations which gave it too much the appearance of a text book. In so doing she has preserved the classical rendering of her earlier work. Her long experience as a teacher and story-teller in England and America informs her notes and arouses in the mature reader a fresh sense of the “power to educate” which rises out of all great literature at the touch of a true interpreter.

Annie Carroll Moore

July 14, 1920.

THE HARE THAT RAN AWAY

And it came to pass that the Buddha (to be) was born again as a Lion. Just as he had helped his fellow-men, he now began to help his fellow-animals, and there was a great deal to be done. For instance, there was a little nervous Hare who was always afraid that something dreadful was going to happen to her. She was always saying: “Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would happen to me?” And she said this so often that at last she thought it really was about to happen. One day, when she had been saying over and over again, “Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would happen to me?” she heard a slight noise: it really was only a heavy fruit which had fallen upon a rustling leaf, but the little Hare was so nervous she was ready to believe anything, and she said in a frightened tone: “The Earth is falling in.” She ran away as fast as she could go, and presently she met an old brother Hare, who said: “Where are you running to, Mistress Hare?”

And the little Hare said: “I have no time to stop and tell you anything. The Earth is falling in, and I am running away.”

“The Earth is falling in, is it?” said the old brother Hare, in a tone of much astonishment; and he repeated this to his brother hare, and he to his brother hare, and he to his brother hare, until at last there were a hundred thousand brother hares, all shouting: “The Earth is falling in.” Now presently the bigger animals began to take the cry up. First the deer, and then the sheep, and then the wild boar, and then the buffalo, and then the camel, and then the tiger, and then the elephant.

Now the wise Lion heard all this noise and wondered at it. “There are no signs,” he said, “of the Earth falling in. They must have heard something.” And then he stopped them all short and said: “What is this you are saying?”

And the Elephant said: “I remarked that the Earth was falling in.”

“How do you know this?” asked the Lion.

“Why, now I come to think of it, it was the Tiger that remarked it to me.”

And the Tiger said: “I had it from the Camel,” and the Camel said: “I had it from the Buffalo.” And the buffalo from the wild boar, and the wild boar from the sheep, and the sheep from the deer, and the deer from the hares, and the Hares said: “Oh! we heard it from that little Hare.”

And the Lion said: “Little Hare, what made you say that the Earth was falling in?”

And the little Hare said: “I saw it.”

“You saw it?” said the Lion. “Where?”

“Yonder, by the tree.”

“Well,” said the Lion, “come with me and I will show you how——”

“No, no,” said the Hare, “I would not go near that tree for anything, I’m so nervous.”

“But,” said the Lion, “I am going to take you on my back.” And he took her on his back, and begged the animals to stay where they were until they returned. Then he showed the little Hare how the fruit had fallen upon the leaf, making the noise that had frightened her, and she said: “Yes, I see—the Earth is not falling in.” And the Lion said: “Shall we go back and tell the other animals?” And they went back. The little Hare stood before the animals and said: “The Earth is not falling in.” And all the animals began to repeat this to one another, and they dispersed gradually, and you heard the words more and more softly:

“The Earth is not falling in,” etc., etc., etc., until the sound died away altogether.

Note.—This story I have told in my own words, using the language I have found most effective for very young children.

THE MONKEY AND THE CROCODILE

Once upon a time, while Brahmadatta was king of Benares, the Bodhisatta came to life at the foot of Himalaya as a Monkey. He grew strong and sturdy, big of frame, well-to-do, and lived by a curve of the river Ganges in a forest haunt.

Now at that time there was a Crocodile dwelling in the Ganges. The Crocodile’s mate saw the great frame of the monkey, and she conceived a longing for his heart to eat. So she said to her lord: “Sir, I desire to eat the heart of that great king of the monkeys!”

“Good wife,” said the Crocodile, “I live in the water and he lives on dry land: how can we catch him?”

“By hook or by crook,” she replied, “caught he must be. If I don’t get him, I shall die.”

“All right,” answered the Crocodile, consoling her, “don’t trouble yourself. I have a plan; I will give you his heart to eat.”

So when the Bodhisatta was sitting on the bank of the Ganges, after taking a drink of water, the Crocodile drew near, and said:

“Sir Monkey, why do you live on bad fruits in this old familiar place? On the other side of the Ganges there is no end to the mango trees, and labuja trees, with fruit sweet as honey! Is it not better to cross over and have all kinds of wild fruit to eat?”

“Lord Crocodile,” the Monkey made answer, “deep and wide is the Ganges: how shall I get across?”

“If you will go, I will mount you on my back, and carry you over.”

The Monkey trusted him, and agreed. “Come here, then,” said the other, “up on my back with you!” and up the Monkey climbed. But when the Crocodile had swum a little way, he plunged the Monkey under the water.

“Good friend, you are letting me sink!” cried the Monkey. “What is that for?”

Said the Crocodile, “You think I am carrying you out of pure good nature? Not a bit of it! My wife has a longing for your heart, and I want to give it to her to eat!”

“Friend,” said the Monkey, “it is nice of you to tell me. Why, if our heart were inside us when we go jumping among the tree-tops, it would be all knocked to pieces!”

“Well, where do you keep it?” asked the other.

The Bodhisatta pointed out a fig-tree, with clusters of ripe fruit, standing not far off. “See,” said he, “there are our hearts hanging on yon fig-tree.”

“If you will show me your heart,” said the Crocodile, “then I won’t kill you.”

“Take me to the tree, then, and I will point it out to you hanging upon it.”

The Crocodile brought him to the place. The Monkey leapt off his back, and climbing up the fig-tree sat upon it. “O silly Crocodile!” said he, “you thought that there were creatures that kept their hearts in a tree-top! You are a fool, and I have outwitted you! You may keep your fruit to yourself. Your body is great, but you have no sense.” And then to explain this idea he uttered the following stanzas:

“Rose-apple, jack-fruit, mangoes too across the water there I see;

Enough of them, I want them not; my fig is good enough for me!

“Great is your body, verily, but how much smaller is your wit!

Now go your ways, Sir Crocodile, for I have had the best of it.”

The Crocodile, feeling as sad and miserable as if he had lost a thousand pieces of money, went back sorrowing to the place where he lived.

THE SPIRIT THAT LIVED IN A TREE

And it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born as a Tree-Spirit. Now there reigned (at Benares) at that time a King who said to himself: “All over India, the kings live in palaces supported by many a column. I will build me a palace resting on one column only—then shall I in truth be the chiefest of all kings.”

Now in the King’s Park was a lordly Sal tree, straight and well-grown, worshiped by village and town, and to this tree even the Royal Family also paid tribute, worship, and honor. And then suddenly there came an order from the King that the tree should be cut down.

And the people were sore dismayed, but the woodmen, who dared not disobey the orders of the King, came to the Park with hands full of perfumed garlands, and encircling the tree with a string, fastened to it a nosegay of flowers, and kindling a lamp, they did worship, exclaiming: “O Tree! on the seventh day must we cut thee down, for so hath the King commanded. Now let the Deities who dwell within thee go elsewhither, and since we are only obeying the King’s command, let no blame fall upon us, and no harm come to our children because of this.”

And the Spirit who lived in the tree, hearing these words, reflected within himself and said: “These builders are determined to cut down this tree, and to destroy my place of dwelling. Now my life lasts only as long as this tree. And lo! all the young Sal trees that stand around, where dwell the Deities my kinsfolk—and they are many—will be destroyed! My own destruction does not touch me so near as the destruction of my children: therefore must I protect their lives.”

Accordingly, at the hour of midnight adorned in divine splendor, he entered into the magnificent chamber of the King, and filling the whole chamber with a bright radiance, stood weeping beside the King’s pillow. At the sight of him, the King, overcome with terror, said: “Who art thou, standing high in the air, and why do thy tears flow?”

And the Tree-God made answer: “Within thy realm I am known as the Lucky-Tree. For sixty thousand years have I stood, and all have worshiped me, and though they have built many a house, and many a town, no violence has been done to me. Spare thou me, also, O King.”

Then the King made answer and said: “Never have I seen so mighty a trunk, so thick and strong a tree; but I will build me a palace, and thou shalt be the only column on which it shall rest, and thou shalt dwell there for ever.”

And the Tree said: “Since thou art resolved to tear my body from me, I pray thee cut me down gently, one branch after another—the root last of all.”

And the King said: “O Woodland Tree! what is this thou askest of me? It were a painful death to die. One stroke at the root would fell thee to the ground. Why wouldst thou die piecemeal?”

And the Tree made answer: “O King! My children, the young Sal trees, all grow at my feet: they are prosperous and well sheltered. If I should fall with one mighty crash, behold these young children of the forest would perish also!”

And the King was greatly moved by this spirit of sacrifice, and said: “O great and glorious Tree! I set thee free from thy fear, and because thou wouldst willingly die to save thy kindred, thou shalt not be cut down. Return to thy home in the Ancient Forest.”

THE HARE THAT WAS NOT AFRAID TO DIE

And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on the third side a border village.

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal, and an Otter; each of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the evening they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many wise things: that the moral law should be observed—that alms should be given to the poor, and that holy days should be kept.

One day the Buddha said: “To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars that come to you by giving from your own store of food.” They all consented.

The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek his prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried them in the sand on the river’s bank while he went down the stream catching more. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand till he came upon them, and he called aloud: “Does any one own these fish?” And, not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he was.

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a field watcher a lizard, and a pot of milk-curd.

And, after thrice crying aloud, “To whom do these belong?” and not finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own lair, thinking, “In due season I will devour them,” and then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he had been.

The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and gathering a bunch of mangoes, laid them up in his part of the jungle, meaning to eat them in due season. He then lay down and thought how virtuous he had been.

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out thinking to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. “It is impossible for me to offer grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar come to me, I will give him (of) my own flesh to eat.”

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin to the Otter and said: “Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I would perform all my priestly duties.”

The Otter said: “I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O Brahmin, and stay in this wood.”

And the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to it then.”

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food, but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood; but the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow, and then I will see to it.”

And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the mangoes, and the Brahmin answered in the same way.

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: “Behold, I will give thee of my flesh to eat. But thou must not take life on this holy day. When thou hast piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted thou shalt eat it and perform all thy priestly duties.”

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself, lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might suffer death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy, he fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to heat the pores of the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in these words: “Brahmin, the fire that thou hast kindled is icy cold; it fails to heat the pores of the hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?”

“O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to the test.”

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: “No god or man could find in me an unwillingness to die.”

Then Sakka said: “O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages to come.”

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the moon the signs of the young hare.

Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his Sabbath meditation and returned to Heaven.

And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.

THE PARROT THAT FED HIS PARENTS

Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born in the shape of a Parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: “My son, behold my strength is spent! Do thou lead the flock, for I am no longer able.” And the Buddha said: “Behold, thou shalt rest. I will lead the birds.” And the Parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new leader, and willingly did they follow him. Now from that day on, the Buddha undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent that they should do any more work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew there, he filled his beak with food for the dear parents who were waiting his return.

Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did his best to drive the Parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret power in the leader of this flock which the Keeper could not overcome.

He noticed that the Parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but that the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away rice in his beak.

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master the Brahmin to tell him what had happened; and even as the master listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that he should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat down in his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot-King amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot, but flew down to the same place in which he had fed the day before.

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground than he felt his feet caught in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird-heart, but a stronger feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: “If I cry out the Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied, and they may safely come to my aid.” Thus was the Parrot both brave and prudent.

But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave spirit. When they had eaten their fill, though they heard the thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad plight of their leader.

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said: “All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what sin have I done?”

The Watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot-King, and the sound of the other Parrots flying through the air. “What is that?” he cried, and leaving his hut he came to the place where he had laid the snare. There he found the captive Parrot; he tied his feet together and brought him to the Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw the Parrot-King, he felt his strong power, and his heart was full of love to him, but he hid his feelings and said in a voice of anger: “Is thy greed greater than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but thou takest away each day more food than thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred for me, or dost thou store up the food in some granary for selfish greed?”

And the Great Being made answer in a sweet human voice: “I hate thee not, O Brahmin. Nor do I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed. But this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is due—each day I grant a loan, and each day I store up a treasure.”

Now the Brahmin could not understand the words of the Buddha (because true wisdom had not entered his heart), and he said: “I pray thee, O Wondrous Bird, to make these words clear unto me.”

And then the Parrot-King made answer: “I carry food to my ancient parents who can no longer seek that food for themselves: thus I pay my daily debt. I carry food to my callow chicks whose wings are yet ungrown. When I am old they will care for me—this my loan to them. And for other birds, weak and helpless of wing, who need the aid of the strong, for them I lay up a store; to these I give in charity.”

Then was the Brahmin much moved, and showed the love that was in his heart. “Eat thy fill, O Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat too, for thy sake.” And he wished to bestow a thousand acres of land upon him, but the Great Being would only take a tiny portion round which were set boundary stones.

And the Parrot returned with a head of rice, and said: “Arise, dear Parents, that I may take you to a place of plenty.” And he told them the story of his deliverance.

THE MAN WHO WORKED TO GIVE ALMS

Once upon a time the Buddha was born as a merchant named Vissaya (and being endowed with the Five Virtues) he was liberal and fond of alms-giving. He had alms halls built at the four city gates, in the heart of the city, and at the door of his own house. At these points he set on foot alms-giving and every day 600,000 men went forth to beg and the food of the beggar and the merchant was exactly the same. And as he thus stirred up the people of India by his gifts, Sakka, the King of the gods, grew suspicious and thought, “This Vissaya gives alms and by scattering his gifts everywhere is stirring up all India. By means of his alms-giving, methinks he will dethrone me and himself become Sakka. I will destroy his wealth, and make him a poor man, and so bring it about that he shall no longer give alms.” So Sakka caused his oil, honey, molasses and the like, and all his treasure of grain to disappear, as well as his slaves and work people. Those who were deprived of his gifts came and said, “My Lord, the alms hall has disappeared. We do not find anything in the various places set up by you.” “Take money hence,” he said. “Do not cut off the giving of alms.” And calling his wife, he bade her keep up her charity. She searched the whole house, and not finding a single bit of money, she said, “My Lord, except the clothes we wear, I see nothing. The whole house is empty.” Opening the seven jewel treasuries they found nothing, and save the merchant and his wife no one else was seen, neither slaves nor hirelings. The merchant, again addressing his wife, said, “My dear, we cannot possibly cut off our charities. Search the whole house till you find something.”

At that moment a certain grass-mower threw down his sickle and pole and the rope for binding the grass in the doorway, and ran away. The merchant’s wife found them and said: “My Lord, this is all I see,” and brought and gave them to him. Said he: “All these years I have never mown grass before, but to-day I will mow grass, and take and sell it, and by this means dispense the fitting alms.”

So, through fear of having to cut off his charities, he took the sickle, and the pole and the rope, and going forth from the city came to a place of much grass, and mowing it, tied it up in two bundles, saying, “One shall belong to us, and with the other I will give alms.”

This he did for six days, and because there was not enough to feed all who came for alms, on the seventh day, he and his wife went fasting. Then his strength gave out. No sooner did the heat of the sun strike upon his head than his eyes began to swim in his head, and he became unconscious, and falling down he scattered the grass. Sakka was moving about, observing what the merchant did. And that god, standing in mid-air, cried: “Refrain from giving, and thou shalt have joy for ever.”

“Who art thou?” cried the merchant.

“I am Sakka.”

And the merchant said:

“Sakka reached his high office by taking upon himself moral duties, and giving alms.”

“Why dost thou give alms?” asked Sakka, still wishing to test him.

“It is not because I desire Sakkahood nor Brahmaship, but through giving there cometh knowledge of all things.”

“Great merchant,” cried Sakka, “henceforth do thou every day give alms.” And all his wealth was restored to him.

THE KING WHO SAW THE TRUTH

Long, long ago the Wisdom Child that should in time become the Buddha was born a King. He was kind and generous, distributing all sorts of alms to the poor; nor did he leave the work to those under him: he took a personal part in the giving of the gifts—and nearly every day came himself to the Alms Hall to see that none went away empty-handed.

But one morning, as he lay meditating on what he still might do for his people, he began to feel that, after all, he had done no very great thing, and he said: “I have given to my people only outside things—the mere gold and silver and raiment and food that I can well spare, and lo! this giving brings me no joy. If I could only give my people part of myself—some precious thing which would show my love for them—whatever it might cost me! And if to-day, when I go down to the Alms Hall, one should say, 'Give me thy heart,’ then, in truth, I will cut open my breast with a spear, and, as though I were drawing up a water-lily from a calm lake, I will pull forth my heart. If he asks my flesh and blood, behold I will give it to him. If he complain that there is no other to do his work, then I will leave my royal throne, and, proclaiming myself a slave, I will do the work of a slave—and, indeed, should any man ask for my eyes, the most precious gift of the gods, then will I tear them out as one might tear the pith from the palm-tree.”

Then he bathed himself, and, mounted upon a richly caparisoned elephant, he rode down to the Alms Hall, his heart filled with love for his people.

Now Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard the resolve of the King, and he thought to test him, whether his words were vain; whether it were a sudden mood which would pass away when the moment came to carry out his stern resolution.

So, when the King came down to the Alms Hall, Sakka stood before him, in the guise of an old blind Brahmin, who, stretching out his hands, cried out: “Long live the King!”

And the King made sign for him to say what was in his heart.

“O great King,” said the blind Brahmin—“in all the inhabited world there is no spot where the fame of thy great heart has not spread. I am blind, but thou, O King, hast two eyes—I therefore beseech thee, give me one, that I too may behold the glories of the Earth!”

Then did the King rejoice greatly that this opportunity should have come to him so quickly, but not wishing to show at once the joy he felt in his heart, he said: “O Brahmin, I pray thee tell me, who bade thee wend thy way to this alms-house? Thou askest of me the most precious thing that a man possesses, and lo! it is very hard to give!”

And the Brahmin made answer: “Behold, a god has sent me hither, and has told me to ask this boon.”

And the King said: “Thy prayer is granted: thou didst ask for one eye, behold I will give thee both eyes.”

And then the news spread quickly through the town that the King was about to give his eyes to a blind Brahmin, and the Commander-in-Chief and all the officials gathered together that they might turn the King from his purpose.

And they said: “O great King, are there not other gifts which thou canst bestow upon this sightless Brahmin—money, jewels, elephants with cloth of gold? Why shouldst thou give to him that most precious of gifts, thy royal eyes?”

And the King said: “Behold, I have taken this vow, and I should be sinful if I were to break it.”

And the courtiers said: “O King, why doest thou this thing? Is it for Life, or Beauty or Strength?”

The King answered: “It is for none of these things: it is for the joy of giving.”

Then the King bid the Surgeon do his work. And when one of his eyes was taken out, he gave it to the Brahmin, and it remained fixed in his socket like a blue lotus flower in bloom. And the King said: “The eye that sees all things is greater than this eye,” and, being filled with ecstasy of joy, he gave the second eye.

And after many days and much suffering, the King’s sight was restored to him—not the natural eyes which see the things around—but the eyes which see perfect and absolute Truth.

And he reigned in righteousness and justice, and the people learnt of him pure wisdom.

THE BULL THAT DEMANDED FAIR TREATMENT

Long ago the Bodisat came to life as a Bull.

Now, when he was yet a young calf, a certain Brahmin, after attending upon some devotees who were wont to give oxen to priests, received the bull. And he called it Nandi Visāla, and grew very fond of it, treating it like a son, and feeding it on gruel and rice.

When the Bodisat grew up, he said to himself: “This Brahmin has brought me up with great care; and there’s no other ox in all the continent of India can drag the weight I can. What if I were to let the Brahmin know about my strength, and so in my turn provide sustenance for him!”

And he said one day to the Brahmin: “Do you go now, Brahmin, to some Squire rich in cattle, and offer to bet him a thousand that your ox will move a hundred laden carts.”

The Brahmin went to a rich farmer, and started a conversation thus:

“Whose bullocks hereabout do you think the strongest?”

“Such and such a man’s,” said the farmer, and then added: “But, of course, there are none in the whole country-side to touch my own!”

“I have one ox,” said the Brahmin, “who is good to move a hundred carts, loads and all!”

“Tush!” said the Squire. “Where in the world is such an ox?”

“Just in my house!” said the Brahmin.

“Then make a bet about it!”

“All right! I bet you a thousand he can.”

So the bet was made. And he filled a hundred carts (small wagons made for two bullocks) with sand and gravel and stones, ranged them all in a row, and tied them all firmly together, cross-bar to axle-tree.

Then he bathed Nandi Visāla, gave him a measure of scented rice, hung a garland round his neck, and yoked him by himself to the front cart. Then he took his seat on the pole, raised his goad aloft, and called out: “Gee up! you brute!! Drag ’em along, you wretch!!”

The Bodisat said to himself: “He addresses me as a wretch. I am no wretch!” And, keeping his four legs as firm as so many posts, he stood perfectly still.

Then the Squire that moment claimed his bet, and made the Brahmin hand over the thousand pieces. And the Brahmin, minus his thousand, took out his ox, went home to his house, and lay down overwhelmed with grief.

Presently Nandi Visāla, who was roaming about the place, came up and saw the Brahmin grieving there, and said to him: “What, Brahmin! Are you asleep?”

“Sleep! How can I sleep after losing the thousand pieces?”

“Brahmin! I’ve lived so long in your house, and have I ever broken any pots, or rubbed up against the walls?”

“Never, my dear!”

“Then why did you call me a wretch? It’s your fault. It’s not my fault. Go now and bet him two thousand; and never call me a wretch again—I, who am no wretch at all!”

When the Brahmin heard what he said, he made the bet two thousand, tied the carts together as before, decked out Nandi Visāla, and yoked him to the foremost cart.

He managed this in the following way: he tied the pole and the cross-piece fast together, yoked Nandi Visāla on one side; on the other he fixed a smooth piece of timber from the point of the yoke to the axle-end, and wrapping it round with the fastenings of the cross-piece, tied it fast, so that when this was done the yoke could not move this way and that way, and it was possible for one ox to drag forwards the double bullock-cart.

Then the Brahmin seated himself on the pole, stroked Nandi Visāla on the back, and called out: “Gee up! my beauty!! Drag it along, my beauty!!”

And the Bodisat, with one mighty effort, dragged forwards the hundred heavily-laden carts, and brought the hindmost one up to the place where the foremost one had stood.

Then the cattle-owner acknowledged himself beaten, and handed over to the Brahmin the two thousand; the bystanders, too, presented the Bodisat with a large sum, and the whole became the property of the Brahmin. Thus, by means of the Bodisat, great was the wealth he acquired.

THE BULL THAT PROVED HIS GRATITUDE

Long ago ... the Bodisat returned to life as a Bull.

Now, when it was still a young calf, its owners stopped a while in an old woman’s house, and gave him to her when they settled their account for their lodging. And she brought him up, treating him like a son, and feeding him on gruel and rice.

He soon became known as “The old woman’s Blackie.” When he grew up, he roamed about, as black as collyrium, with the village cattle, and was very good-tempered and quiet. The village children used to catch hold of his horns, or ears, or dewlaps, and hang on to him; or amuse themselves by pulling his tail, or riding about on his back.

One day he said to himself: “My mother is wretchedly poor. She’s taken so much pains, too, in bringing me up, and has treated me like a son. What if I were to work for hire, and so relieve her distress!” And from that day he was always on the look-out for a job.

Now, one day a young caravan owner arrived at a neighboring ford with five hundred bullock-wagons. And his bullocks were not only unable to drag the carts across, but even when he yoked the five hundred pair in a row they could not move one cart by itself.

The Bodisat was grazing with the village cattle close to the ford. The young caravan owner was a famous judge of cattle, and began looking about to see whether there were among them any thoroughbred bull able to drag over the carts. Seeing the Bodisat, he thought he would do, and asked the herdsmen: “Who may be the owners, my men, of this fellow? I should like to yoke him to the cart, and am willing to give a reward for having the carts dragged over.”

“Catch him and yoke him then,” said they. “He has no owner hereabouts.”

But when he began to put a string through his nose and drag him along, he could not get him to come. For the Bodisat, it is said, wouldn’t go till he was promised a reward.

The young caravan owner, seeing what his object was, said to him: “Sir! if you’ll drag over these five hundred carts for me, I’ll pay you wages at the rate of two pence for each cart—a thousand pieces in all.”

Then the Bodisat went along of his own accord, and the men yoked him to the cart. And with a mighty effort he dragged it up and landed it safe on the high ground. And in the same manner he dragged up all the carts.

So the caravan owner then put five hundred pennies in a bundle, one for each cart, and tied it round his neck. The Bull said to himself: “This fellow is not giving me wages according to the rate agreed upon. I shan’t let him go on now!” And so he went and stood in the way of the front cart, and they tried in vain to get him away.

The caravan owner thought: “He knows, I suppose, that the pay is too little;” and wrapping a thousand pieces in a cloth, tied them up in a bundle, and hung that round his neck. And as soon as he got the bundle with a thousand inside, he went off to his “mother.”

Then the village children called out: “See! what’s that round the neck of the old woman’s Blackie?” and began to run up to him. But he chased after them, so that they took to their heels before they got near him; and he went straight to his “mother.” And he appeared with eyes all bloodshot, utterly exhausted from dragging over so many carts.

“How did you get this, dear?” said the good old woman, when she saw the bag round his neck. And when she heard, on inquiry from the herdsmen, what had happened, she exclaimed: “Am I so anxious, then, to live on the fruit of your toil, my darling! Why do you put yourself to all this pain?”

And she bathed him in warm water, and rubbed him all over with oil, and gave him to drink, and fed him up with good food. And at the end of her life she passed away according to her deeds, and the Bodisat with her.

THE HORSE THAT HELD OUT TO THE END

And it came to pass that the Buddha (to be) came to life in the shape of a Horse—a thoroughbred small horse, and he was made the King’s Destrier, surrounded by pomp and state. He was fed on exquisite three-year-old rice which was always served up to him in a golden dish worth a hundred thousand pieces of money, and the ground of his stall was perfumed with the four odors. Round his stall were hung crimson curtains, while overhead was a canopy studded with stars of gold. On the wall were festooned wreaths and garlands of fragrant flowers, and a lamp fed with scented oil was always burning there.

Now all the kings round coveted the kingdom of Benares. Once seven kings passed Benares and sent a missive to the King, saying: “Either yield up your kingdom to us or give battle.”

Assembling his ministers, the King of Benares laid the matter before them and asked what he was to do. Said they: “You ought not to go out to battle in person, Sire, in the first instance. Despatch such and such a Knight out first to fight him, and, later on, if he fall, we will decide what to do.”

Then the King sent for that Knight and said to him: “Can you fight the seven kings, my dear Knight?” Said he: “Give me but your noble Destrier, and then I could fight not only seven kings but all the kings in India.” “My dear Knight, take my Destrier or any horse you please, and do battle.” “Very good, my Sovereign Lord,” said the Knight, and with a bow he passed down from the upper chambers of the palace.

Then he had the noble Destrier led out and sheathed in mail, arming himself too and girding on his sword.

Mounted on his noble steed he passed out of the City Gate, and with a lightning charge broke down the first camp, taking one king alone, and bringing him back a prisoner to the soldiers’ custody.

... And this went on until six kings had been made prisoner. Then the noble Horse received a wound which streamed with blood and caused him much pain. Perceiving that the Horse was wounded, the Knight made it lie down at the King’s gate, loosened its mail, and set about arming another horse.

But the Horse perceiving this, said: “The other horse will not be able to break down the seventh camp and capture the seventh king: he will lose all that I have accomplished. The peerless Knight will be slain, and the King will fall into the hands of the foe. I alone and no other horse can break down the seventh camp and capture the seventh king.”

So he called to the Knight and repeated these words, and added: “I will not throw away what I have already done. Only have me set upon my feet, and clad again in my armor, and I will accomplish my work.”

The Knight had the Horse set upon his feet, bound up his wound, and armed him again in proof. Mounted on the Destrier, he broke down the seventh camp, and brought back alive the seventh king.

They led the Horse to the King’s gate, and the King came up to look at him.

Then said the Great Being: “Great King, slay not these seven kings: bind them by an oath, and let them go. Let the Knight enjoy the honor due to us both. As for you, exercise charity, keep the Ornaments, and rule your kingdom in righteousness and justice.” When the Horse had thus exhorted the King, they took off his mail, but as they were taking it off piecemeal, he passed away.

The King had the body buried with due respect, bestowed great honors on the Knight, and sent the kings to their homes, after exacting from each an oath never to war upon him any more. And he ruled his kingdom in righteousness and justice, passing away when his life closed, to fare thereafter according to his deserts.

The story was told by the Master about a brother who gave up persevering.

“Brethren, in bygone days the wise and good persevered even in hostile surroundings, and even when they were wounded they did not give in. Whereas you who have devoted yourself to so saving a doctrine, how comes it that you give up persevering?”

THE MONKEY THAT SAVED THE HERD

It came to pass that the Buddha was re-born as the King of the monkeys. He lived with his herd of 80,000 monkeys in a thick forest, near a lake. In this lake there lived an ogre who used to devour all those who went down to the water.

The Buddha spoke to his subjects and said: “My friends, in this forest there are trees that are poisoned, and lakes that are haunted by ogres. Eat no fruit and drink no water of which you have not already tasted without consulting me.”

This they agreed to. And one day, having arrived at a spot which they had never visited before, they found a great lake. They did not drink, but awaited the return of their King.

Now when he arrived he went round the lake, and found that all the footsteps led down to the lake, but none came up again. And he said: “Without doubt this is the haunt of an ogre.”

When this water-ogre saw that they were not invading his domain he appeared in the form of a terrible monster with a blue belly, a white face, and bright red hands and feet. In this shape he came out of the water and said to the King: “Why are you seated here? Go down to the lake to drink.” But the King said: “Are you not the ogre of this water?” “Yes, I am,” was the answer. “Do you take as your prey all those who go down into this water?” “Yes, I do, from small birds upwards. I never let anything go which comes down into this water. I will eat the lot of you, too.” “But we shall not let you eat us.” “Just drink the water.” “Yes, we will drink the water, and yet not fall into your power.” “How do you propose to drink the water, then?” “Ah, you think we shall have to go down to the water to drink; whereas we shall not enter the water at all, but the whole eighty thousand of us will take a cane each and drink therewith from your lake as easily as through the hollow stalk of a lotus. And so you will not be able to eat us.”

So saying the King had a cane brought to him, and in true belief that the miracle would take place he blew down the cane, which straightway became hollow throughout, without a single knot being left in its length. In this fashion he had another, and another brought, and blew down them. Then he made the tour of the lake, and commanded, saying, “Let all canes growing here become hollow throughout.” Now, thanks to the saving goodness of their re-born chiefs, their commands are always fulfilled. And henceforth every single cane that grew round that lake became hollow throughout. After giving his commands the King seated himself with a cane in his hand. All the other 80,000 monkeys, too, seated themselves round the lake each with a cane in his hands. At the same moment when the King sucked up the water through his cane, they all drank in the same manner as they sat on the bank. This was the way they drank, and the ogre could get no power over any one of them, so he went off in a rage to his habitation. The King, with his following of 80,000 monkeys, went back into the forest.

THE MALLARD THAT ASKED FOR TOO MUCH

And it came to pass that the Buddha (to be) was born a Brahmin, and growing up was married to a bride of his own rank, who bore him three daughters.

After his death he was born again as a Golden Mallard, and he determined to give his golden feathers one at a time to enable his wife and daughters to live in comfort. So away he flew to where they dwelt, and alighted on the central beam of the roof.

Seeing the Bodisat, the wife and girls asked where he had come from, and he told them that he was their father who had died and been born a Golden Mallard, and that he had come to bring them help. “You shall have my golden feathers, one by one,” he said. He gave them one and departed. From time to time he returned to give them another feather, and they became quite wealthy.

But one day the mother said: “There’s no trusting animals, my children. Who’s to say your father might not go away one of these days and never return? Let us use our time, and pluck him clean the next time he comes, so as to make sure of all his feathers.” Thinking this would pain him, the daughters refused. The mother in her greed plucked the Mallard herself, and as she plucked them against his wish, they ceased to be golden and became like a crane’s feathers. His wings grew again, but they were plain white; he flew away to his own abode and never came back.

THE MERCHANT WHO OVERCAME ALL OBSTACLES

Once upon a time the Buddha (to be) was born in a merchant’s family; and when he grew up he went about trafficking with five hundred carts.

One day he arrived at a sandy desert twenty leagues across. The sand in that desert was so fine that when taken in the closed fist it could not be kept in the hand. After the sun had risen it became as hot as a mass of charcoal, so that no man could walk on it. Those, therefore, who had to travel over it took wood and water and oil and rice in their carts, and traveled during the night. And at daybreak they formed an encampment, and spread an awning over it, and, taking their meals early, they passed the day sitting in the shade. At sunset they supped; and when the ground had become cool, they yoked their oxen and went on. The traveling was like a voyage over the sea: a so-called land-pilot had to be chosen, and he brought the caravan safe to the other side by his knowledge of the stars.

On this occasion the merchant of our story traversed the desert in that way. And when he had passed over fifty-nine leagues, he thought: “Now in one more night we shall get out of the sand.” And after supper he directed the wood and water to be thrown away, and the wagons to be yoked, and so set out. The pilot had cushions arranged on the foremost cart, and lay down looking at the stars, and directing them where to drive. But, worn out by want of rest during the long march, he fell asleep, and did not perceive that the oxen had turned around and taken the same road by which they had come.

The oxen went on the whole night through. Towards dawn the pilot woke up, and, observing the stars, called out: “Stop the wagons! Stop the wagons!” The day broke just as they had stopped, and were drawing up the carts in a line. Then the men cried out: “Why, this is the very encampment we left yesterday! Our wood and water is all gone! We are lost!” And unyoking the oxen, and spreading the canopy over their heads, they lay down in despondency, each one under his wagon.

But the Bodisat, saying to himself, “If I lose heart, all these will perish,” walked about while the morning was yet cool. And on seeing a tuft of Kusa grass, he thought: “This must have grown by attracting some water which there must be beneath it.”

And he made them bring a hoe and dig in that spot. And they dug sixty cubits deep. And when they had got thus far, the spade of the diggers struck on a rock, and as soon as it struck, they all gave up in despair.

But the Bodisat thought, “There must be water under that rock,” and, stooping down, applied his ear to it and tested the sound of it. And he heard the sound of water gurgling beneath. And he got out and called his page. “My lad, if you give up now, we shall all be lost. Don’t you lose heart. Take this iron hammer, and go down into the pit and give the rock a good blow.”

The lad obeyed, and though they all stood by in despair, he went down full of determination, and struck at the stone. And the rock split in two and fell below, and no longer blocked up the stream. And water rose till its brim was the height of a palm-tree in the well. And they all drank of the water, and bathed in it. Then they split up their extra yokes and axles, and cooked rice and ate it, and fed their oxen with it. And when the sun set, they put up a flag by the well and went to the place appointed. There they sold their merchandise at double and treble profit, and returned to their own home, and lived to a good old age, and then passed away according to their deeds. And the Bodisat gave gifts, and did other virtuous acts, and passed away according to his deeds.

THE ELEPHANT THAT WAS HONORED IN OLD AGE

And the Buddha as Prime Minister served the King. Now there was a certain She-Elephant endowed with great might which enabled her to go a hundred leagues a day. She did the duties of messenger to the King, and in battle she fought and crushed the enemy. The King said: “She is very serviceable to me.”

He gave her ornaments, and caused all honor to be shown her. Then, when she was weak from age, the King took away all the honor he had bestowed.

From that time she was unprotected, and lived by eating grass and leaves in the forest.

And one day the chief Potter had not enough oxen to yoke to the carts which carried the material for making clay. And the King said: “Where is our She-Elephant?”

“O King! she is wandering at her will in the forest.”

And the King said: “Do thou yoke her to the cart.”

And the Potter said: “Good, O King!” And he did even as the King commanded.

But when this insult was offered to the Elephant, she came to the Prime Minister and said: “O Wise Being! I pray you listen to my tale. When I was young, great strength was mine; and I did walk a hundred leagues to bear the King’s messages, and, with weapons bound upon my body, I did take part in battle, crushing the enemy beneath my feet. And now I am old, and the King hath withdrawn all the honors he bestowed upon me, and not content with allowing me to wander and feed on grass, unprotected in my old age, he has even caused me to be yoked to the Potter’s cart as are the oxen.”

Then the Buddha promised that he would plead her cause, and appearing before the King, he asked: “Great King, did not a She-Elephant covered with weapons do battle for thee; and on such and such a day, with a writing upon her neck, did she not go a hundred leagues on a message? Thou didst bestow upon her great honor. I pray thee tell me, where is she now?”

And the King, in some confusion, made answer: “Behold, she is yoked to a cart.”

Then did the Buddha speak in sorrowful anger to the King, and rebuked him, saying: “Thou hast yoked this Elephant to a cart after all the services she has rendered. Then was the honor only bestowed because of more services expected?”

And all who heard him received his instruction, and the King restored the She-Elephant to her former place of honor.

THE FAITHFUL FRIEND

Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became his Minister.

At that time a dog used to go to the state elephant’s stable, and feed on the lumps of rice which fell where the elephant fed. Being attracted there by the food, he soon became great friends with the elephant, and used to eat close by him. At last neither of them was happy without the other; and the dog used to amuse himself by catching hold of the elephant’s trunk, and swinging to and fro.

But one day there came a peasant who gave the elephant-keeper money for the dog, and took it back with him to his village. From that time the elephant, missing the dog, would neither eat nor drink nor bathe. And they let the King know about it.

He sent the Bodisat, saying: “Do you go, Pandit, and find out what’s the cause of the elephant’s behavior.”

So he went to the stable, and seeing how sad the elephant looked, said to himself: “There seems to be nothing bodily the matter with him. He must be so overwhelmed with grief by missing some one, I should think, who had become near and dear to him.” And he asked the elephant-keepers: “Is there any one with whom he is particularly intimate?”

“Certainly, Sir! There was a dog of whom he was very fond indeed.”

“Where is it now?”

“Some man or other took it away.”

“Do you know where the man lives?”

“No, Sir!”

Then the Bodisat went and told the King. “There’s nothing the matter with the elephant, your majesty; but he was great friends with a dog, and I fancy it’s through missing it that he refuses his food.”

When the King heard what he said, he asked what was now to be done.

“Have a proclamation made, O King, to this effect: 'A man is said to have taken away a dog of whom our state elephant was fond. In whose house soever that dog shall be found, he shall be fined so much!’”

The King did so; and, as soon as he heard of it, the man turned the dog loose. The dog hastened back, and went close up to the elephant. The elephant took him up in his trunk and placed him on his forehead, and wept and cried, and took him down again, and watched him as he fed. And then he took his own food.

Then the King paid great honor to the Bodisat for knowing the motives even of animals.

THE HAWK AND THE OSPREY

There lived once, on the shores of a natural lake, a Hawk on the south shore, a She-Hawk on the west shore, on the north a Lion, the king of beasts, on the east the Osprey, the king of birds, in the middle a Tortoise on a small island.

Now the Hawk asked the She-Hawk to become his wife. She asked him: “Have you any friends?” “No, madam,” he replied. “But,” she said, “we must have some friends who can defend us against any danger or trouble that may arise. Therefore I beg of you to find some friends.” “But,” said the Hawk, “with whom shall I make friends?” “Why, with King Osprey, who lives on the eastern shore, with King Lion on the north, and with the Tortoise who lives in the middle of the lake.”