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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]
Footnote 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.
Footnote 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
1. THE HARE THAT RAN AWAY 1
2. THE MONKEY AND THE CROCODILE 8
3. THE SPIRIT THAT LIVED IN A TREE 13
4. THE HARE THAT WAS NOT AFRAID TO DIE 19
5. THE PARROT THAT FED HIS PARENTS 27
6. THE MAN WHO WORKED TO GIVE ALMS 35
7. THE KING WHO SAW THE TRUTH 41
8. THE BULL THAT DEMANDED FAIR TREATMENT 49
9. THE BULL THAT PROVED HIS GRATITUDE 57
10. THE HORSE THAT HELD OUT TO THE END 63
11. THE MONKEY THAT SAVED THE HERD 71
12. THE MALLARD THAT ASKED FOR TOO MUCH 77
13. THE MERCHANT WHO OVERCAME ALL 81
OBSTACLES
14. THE ELEPHANT THAT WAS HONORED IN OLD 87
AGE
15. THE FAITHFUL FRIEND 93
16. THE HAWK AND THE OSPREY 99
17. GRANDMOTHER’S GOLDEN DISH 107
18. THE ELEPHANT THAT SPARED LIFE 115
19. HOW THE ANTELOPE WAS CAUGHT 123
20. THE BANYAN DEER 129
21. THE PUPIL WHO TAUGHT HIS TEACHER 139
22. THE MAN WHO TOLD A LIE 145
23. THE CROW THAT THOUGHT IT KNEW 153
24. THE JUDAS TREE 159
25. THE RIVER-FISH AND THE MONEY 163
26. THE DREAMER IN THE WOOD 171
27. THE RICE MEASURE 175
28. THE POISONOUS TREES 183
29. THE WELL-TRAINED ELEPHANT 189
30. THE WISE PHYSICIAN 197
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.”