And he went, and brought back all those men as prisoners, and had it
announced to the King that the robbers were brought up. And the King,
without inquiring what they had done, gave orders to have them all
trampled to death by elephants!
Then they made them all lie down in the courtyard, and fetched the
elephant. And the Bodisat exhorted them, saying: “Keep the Commandments
in mind. Regard them all—the slanderer, and the King, and the
elephant—with feelings as kind as you harbor towards yourselves!”
And they did so.
Then men led up the elephant; but though they brought him to the spot,
he would not begin his work, but trumpeted forth a mighty cry, and took
to flight. And they brought up another and another, but they all ran
away.
“There must be some drug in their possession,” said the King; and gave
orders to have them searched. So they searched, but found nothing, and
told the King so.
“Then they must be repeating some spell. Ask them if they have any spell
to utter.”
The officials asked them, and the Bodisat said there was. And they told
the King, and he had them all called before him, and said: “Tell me that
spell you know!”
Then the Bodisat spoke, and said: “O King! we have no other spell but
this—that we destroy no life, not even of grass; that we take nothing
which is not given to us; that we are never guilty of unfaithfulness,
nor speak falsehood, nor drink intoxicants; that we exercise ourselves
in love, and give gifts; that we make rough places plain, dig ponds, and
put up rest-houses—this is our spell, this is our defense, this is our
strength!”
Then the King had confidence in them, and gave them all the property in
the house of the slanderer, and made him their slave; and bestowed, too,
the elephant upon them, and made them a grant of the village.
HOW THE ANTELOPE WAS CAUGHT
Once upon a time the King of Benares had a gardener named Sanjaya. Now,
a swift antelope who had come to the garden took to flight as soon as it
saw Sanjaya. But Sanjaya did not frighten it away; and when it had come
again and again it began to walk about in the garden. And day by day the
gardener used to pluck the various fruits and flowers in the garden and
take them away to the King.
Now, one day the King asked him: “I say, friend gardener, is there
anything strange in the garden so far as you’ve noticed?”
“I’ve noticed nothing, O King, save that an antelope is in the habit of
coming and wandering about there. That I often see.”
“But could you catch it?”
“If I had a little honey I could bring it right inside the palace here!”
The King gave him the honey; and he took it, went to the garden, smeared
it on the grass at the spot the antelope frequented, and hid himself.
When the deer came and had eaten the honey-smeared grass, it was bound
with the lust of taste; and from that time went nowhere else, but came
exclusively to the garden. And as the gardener saw that it was allured
by the honey-smeared grass, he in due course showed himself. For a few
days the antelope took to flight on seeing him. But after seeing him
again and again it acquired confidence, and gradually came to eat grass
from the gardener’s hand. And when the gardener saw that its confidence
was gained, he strewed the path right up to the palace as thick with
branches as if he were covering it with mats, hung a gourdful of honey
over his shoulder, carried a bundle of grass at his waist, and then kept
sprinkling honey-smeared grass in front of the antelope till he led him
within the palace.
As soon as the deer had got inside, they shut the door. The antelope,
seeing men, began to tremble and quake with the fear of death, and ran
hither and thither about the hall. The King came down from his upper
chamber, and, seeing the trembling creature, said: “Such is the nature
of an antelope, that it will not go for a week afterwards to a place
where it has seen men, nor its life long to a place where it has been
frightened. Yet this one, with just such a disposition, and accustomed
only to the jungle, has now, bound by the lust of taste, come to just
such a place. Verily, there is nothing worse in the world than this lust
of taste!”
And when in other words he had shown the danger of greed, he let the
antelope go back to the forest.
THE BANYAN DEER
Long ago the Bodisat came to life as a deer. When he was born he was of
a golden color; his eyes were like round jewels; his horns were white as
silver; his mouth was red as a cluster of kamala flowers; his hoofs were
as bright and hard as lacquer-work; his tail as fine as the tail of a
Thibetan ox; and his body as large in size as a foal’s.
He lived in the forest with an attendant herd of five hundred deer,
under the name of the King of the Banyan Deer; and not far from him
there dwelt another deer, golden as he, under the name of the Monkey
Deer, with a like attendant herd.
The King of that country was devoted to hunting, never ate without meat,
and used to summon all the townspeople to go hunting every day to the
destruction of their ordinary work. The people thought, “This King puts
an end to all our work. Suppose we make a park, provide food and drink
for the deer. Then we will drive them into the park, close the entrance
and deliver them to the King.”
This they did, surrounding the very place where the Banyan Deer and the
Monkey Deer were living. When the King heard this, he went to the park,
and seeing there the two golden-colored deer, he granted them their
lives. But henceforth he would go himself to shoot the deer and bring it
home. Sometimes his cook would go and shoot one. The deer, as soon as
they saw the bow, would quake with fear of Death, and run away; but when
they had been hit once or twice, they became weary or wounded and were
killed. And the herd told their King, who sent for the Monkey Deer and
said: “Friend, almost all the Deer are being destroyed. Now, though they
certainly must die, yet henceforth let them not be wounded with arrows.
Let the deer take it by turns to go to the place of execution. One day
let the lot fall on my herd, and the next day on yours.”
He agreed, and thenceforth the deer whose turn it was used to go down
and lie down after placing his neck on the block of execution. And the
cook used to come and carry off the one he found lying there.
But one day the lot fell upon a roe in the Monkey Deer who was with
young. She went to the Monkey Deer and said: “Lord! I am with young.
When I have brought forth my son, we will both take our turn. Order the
bows to pass me by.”
“I cannot make your lot,” said he, “fall upon the others. You know well
enough it has fallen upon you. Go away!” Receiving no help from him, she
went to the Bodisat and told him the matter. He listened to her quietly
and said: “Be it so! Do you go back. I will relieve you of your turn.”
And he went himself and laid his head on the block of execution.
The cook, seeing him, exclaimed: “The King of the Deer whose life was
promised to him is lying in the place of execution. What does it mean?”
And he went hastily, and told the King.
The King no sooner heard it than he mounted his chariot and proceeded
with a great retinue to the place, and beholding the Bodisat, said: “My
friend, the King of the Deer! Did I not grant you your life? Why are you
lying here?”
“O great King! A roe with young came and told me that the lot had fallen
upon her. Now I could not ask another to take her place, so I, giving my
life for her, have lain down. Harbor no further suspicion, O great
King!”
“My Lord, the golden-colored King of the Deer! I never yet saw, even
among men, one so full of forbearance, kindness and compassion. I am
pleased with thee in this matter! Rise up. I grant your lives, both to
you and to her!”
“But though we be safe, what shall the rest do, O King of men?”
“Then I grant their lives to the rest, my Lord.”
“Thus, then, great King, the deer in the park will have gained security,
but what will the others do?”
“They also shall not be molested.”
“Great King! even though the deer dwell secure, what shall the rest of
the four-footed creatures do?”
“They shall also be free from fear.”
“Great King, even though the quadrupeds are in safety, what shall the
flock of birds do?”
“Well, I grant the same boon to them.”
“Great King! the birds then will obtain peace; but what of the fish who
dwell in the water?”
“They shall have peace as well.”
Then the Great Being having interceded with the King for all creatures,
said:
“Walk in righteousness, O great King! Doing justice to fathers and
mothers, to townsmen and landsmen, you shall enter, when your body is
dissolved, the happy world of Heaven.”
* * * * *
The roe gave birth to a son as beautiful as buds of flowers; and he went
to playing about with the Monkey Deer’s herd. But when its mother saw
that, she said, “My son, henceforth go not in his company. You may keep
to the Banyan Deer’s herd.”
Now after that, the deer, secure of their lives, began to eat men’s
crops. And the men dared not strike them or drive them away,
recollecting how it had been granted to them that they should dwell
secure. So they met together in front of the King’s palace, and told the
matter to the King.
“When I was well pleased, I granted to the leader of the Banyan herd a
boon,” said he. “I may give up my kingdom but not my oaths! Begone with
you! Not a man in my kingdom shall be allowed to hurt the deer.”
When the Banyan King heard that, he assembled his herd, and said:
“Henceforth you are not allowed to eat other people’s crops.” And so
forbidding them, he sent a message to the men: “Henceforth let the
husbandmen put up no fence to guard their crops: but let them tie leaves
round the edge of the field as a sign.”
From that time, they say, the sign of the tying of the leaves was seen
in the fields, and from that time not a single deer trespassed beyond
it: for such was the instruction they received from (their King) the
Bodisat.
And the Bodisat continued thus his life long to instruct the deer, and
passed away with his herd, according to his deeds.
THE PUPIL WHO TAUGHT HIS TEACHER
And the Buddha was re-born in a Brahmin family and was known as
Dhamapala or Law Keeper.
When he came of age he was sent by his father to study with a world
famed teacher at Takasila and became the chief pupil in a company of
five hundred youths.
At that time the eldest son of the teacher died and the father,
surrounded by his pupils, in the midst of his kith and kin, buried his
son—and all the pupils wept and wailed, but Dhamapala was silent and
shed no tear, but when the company returned from the cemetery Dhamapala
asked, “Why did your son die? It is not right that children should die;
only when people grow old can this happen.” And they asked him, “Is it
the custom of your family that the young do not die?” And he said: “Yes,
that is the custom in my family.” The lads told this conversation to
their teacher.
Now when the teacher heard this, he said to them, “That is a most
marvelous thing that he says. I will make a journey to his father and
ask him about it, and if it be true I will live according to his rule of
right.”
And he said to the young man: “I am going on a journey. Do thou, in my
absence, instruct these youths.”
So saying, he procured the bones of a wild goat, washed and scented
them, and put them into a bag. Then taking with him a little page boy he
started for the village in which lived the father of his pupil.
When the house was reached, and the teacher had rested and taken food,
and the host had washed the feet of his guest, the teacher said:
“Brahmin, your son when full of wisdom has by an unhappy chance lost his
life. Grieve not for him.” The Brahmin laughed loudly. “Why do you
laugh, Brahmin?” asked the other. “Because,” he said, “it is _not_ my
son who is dead; it must be some other.”
“No, Brahmin, your son is dead, and no other. Look on his bones, and
believe.” So saying, he unwrapped the bones. “There are your son’s
bones,” he said.
“A wild goat’s bones, perhaps,” quoth the Brahmin, “or a dog’s, but my
son is not dead. In our family for seven generations, no such thing has
been known as a death in tender years, and you are speaking falsehood.”
Then they all clapped their hands and laughed aloud.
The teacher, when he beheld this wonderful thing, was much pleased and
said: “Brahmin, this custom in your family line cannot be without cause,
that the young do not die. Why _is_ it that you do not die young? Of
what good and holy deed is this the fruit?”
Then the Brahmin made answer:
“We walk in righteousness. We speak no ill. We flee from things that are
evil. We take no heed of the foolish. We follow the counsel of the wise.
We delight in giving gifts. We feed the hungry. We are faithful in our
marriage vows. We are versed in sacred knowledge. Therefore, the young
amongst us never die.”
On hearing this, the teacher replied: “A happy journey is this of mine
and fruitful. I came hither, O wise Brahmin, to test you. Your son is
safe and well. I pray you impart to me your rule of preserving life.”
Then the other wrote it on a leaf and returned to his pupils.
THE MAN WHO TOLD A LIE
On one occasion four divine beings made their appearance on the Earth to
attend a festival of the Gods.
And they bore in their hands wreaths of the strangest flowers that had
ever been seen, and those around asked: “What are these flowers?” And
the Gods made answer and said: “These divine flowers are fit for those
possessed of great powers: for the base, the foolish, the faithless, the
sinful beings within the world of men, they are _not_ fitted. But,
whosoever amongst men is endowed with certain virtues—to them is due the
honor of wearing these flowers.
“He who steals no thing from another,
Who uttereth no lie,
Who doth not lose his head at the height of Fame—
He may wear the flowers.”
Now there was a certain false Teacher or Priest who thought to himself:
“I do not possess one of these qualities, but, by appearing to possess
them, I shall obtain permission to wear the wreaths, and the people will
believe that I really am what I appear to be, and they will place their
confidence in me.”
Then, with exceeding boldness, he came to the first of the Gods and
exclaimed with great solemnity: “Behold, _I_ am endowed with these
qualities of which you speak—
“I have stolen from no man, never have I uttered a lie, nor has fame
ever caused me to be proud or haughty.”
And when he had uttered these words, the wreath was placed upon his
brow. And, emboldened by his success, he came with the same pride and
confidence into the presence of the second God, and asked that the
second wreath should be bestowed upon him.
And the God said:
“He who earns wealth honestly, and shuns dishonest means,
Who takes but sparingly of the Cup of Pleasure,
To him shall be awarded this second wreath.”
And the false Priest bowed his head and said: “Behold all that I have
earned is honestly gotten, and all pleasure have I shunned. Give me the
wreath!”
And the wreath was placed upon his brow.
Then, with boldness increased by his success, he approached the third
God, and asked that the third wreath should encircle his brow.
And the God said:
“He who scorns choice food,
Who never turneth from his purpose,
Who keepeth his faith unchanged,
To him shall be given the wreath.”
And the false Priest said: “I have ever lived on the simplest fare. I
have been ever steadfast of purpose, and loyal in my faith. Therefore
give _me_ the wreath.”
And the third wreath was bestowed upon him.
Then did the pride of the false Priest know no bounds, and he went
hastily to the fourth God and demanded the fourth wreath.
And the God said:
“He who will attack no good man to his face or behind his back,
And who keeps his word in all things,
To him belongs this wreath.”
Then the false Priest cried out in a loud voice: “I have attacked no
man, good or evil, and never have I broken my word to any.”
The God looked at him sadly, but he placed the wreath upon his brow, and
the four divine beings disappeared from the sight of man. But no sooner
had they left the earth than the Priest felt a violent pain. His head
seemed to be crushed by spikes, and, writhing in agony, he made full
confession and begged that the flowers should be removed from his head;
but though all pitied his condition, none could remove the flowers, for
they seemed to be fastened on with an iron band.
And he called aloud to the Gods, saying
“O ye great powers, forgive my pride and spare my life!” And they
answered: “These flowers are not meet for the wicked. You have received
the reward of your false words.” Then, having rebuked him in the
presence of the people, they removed the flowers from the head of the
repentant man and returned to the abode of the Blest.
THE CROW THAT THOUGHT IT KNEW
Once upon a time, while Brahma-datta reigned as king in Benares, the
Bodhisatta became a marsh crow, and dwelt by a certain pool. His name
was Viraka, the Strong.
There arose a famine in Kasi. Men could not spare food for the crows,
nor make offering to goblins and snakes. One by one the crows left the
famine-stricken land, and betook them to the woods.
A certain crow named Savitthaka, who lived at Benares, took with him his
lady crow and went to the place where Viraka lived, making his abode
beside the same pool.
One day, this crow was seeking food about the pool. He saw how Viraka
went down into it, and made a meal off some fish; and afterwards came up
out of the water again, and stood drying his feathers. “Under the wing
of that crow,” thought he, “plenty of fish are to be got. I will become
his servant.” So he drew near.
“What is it, Sir?” asked Viraka.
“I want to be your servant, my Lord!” was the reply.
Viraka agreed, and from that time the other served him. And from that
time, Viraka used to eat enough fish to keep him alive, and the rest he
gave to Savitthaka as soon as he had caught them; and when Savitthaka
had eaten enough to keep him alive, he gave what was over to his wife.
After a while pride came into his heart. “This crow,” said he, “is
black, and so am I: in eyes and beak and feet, too, there is no
difference between us. I don’t want his fish; I will catch my own!” So
he told Viraka that for the future he intended to go down to the water
and catch fish himself. Then Viraka said, “Good friend, you do not
belong to a tribe of such crows as are born to go into water and catch
fish. Don’t destroy yourself!”
But in spite of this attempt to dissuade him, Savitthaka did not take
the warning to heart. Down he went to the pool, into the water; but he
could not make his way through the weeds and come out again—there he
was, entangled in the weeds, with only the tip of his beak appearing
above the water. So not being able to breathe he perished there beneath
the water.
His mate noticed that he did not return, and went to Viraka to ask news
of him. “My Lord,” she asked, “Savitthaka is not to be seen: where is
he?” And as she asked him this, she repeated the first stanza:—
“O have you seen Savitthaka, O Viraka, have you seen
My sweet-voiced mate whose neck is like the peacock in its sheen?”
When Viraka heard it, he replied, “Yes, I know where he is gone,” and
recited the second stanza:—
“He was not born to dive beneath the wave,
But what he could not do he needs must try;
So the poor bird has found a watery grave,
Entangled in the weeds, and left to die.”
When the lady-crow heard it, weeping, she returned to Benares.
THE JUDAS TREE
Once upon a time Brahmadatta, the king of Benares, had four sons. One
day they sent for the charioteer, and said to him:
“We want to see a Judas tree; show us one!”
“Very well, I will,” the charioteer replied. But he did not show it to
them all together. He took the eldest at once to the forest in the
chariot, and showed him the tree at the time when the buds were just
sprouting from the stem. To the second he showed it when the leaves were
green, to the third at the time of blossoming, and to the fourth when it
was bearing fruit.
After this it happened that the four brothers were sitting together, and
some one asked, “What sort of a tree is the Judas tree?” Then the first
brother answered:
“Like a burnt stump!”
And the second cried, “Like a banyan tree!”
And the third—“Like a piece of meat!”
And the fourth said, “Like the acacia!”
They were vexed at each other’s answers, and ran to find their father.
“My Lord,” they asked, “what sort of a tree is the Judas tree?”
“What did you say to that?” he asked. They told him the manner of their
answers. Said the king:
“All four of you have seen the tree. Only when the charioteer showed you
the tree, you did not ask him, 'What is the tree like at such a time?’
or 'at such another time?’ You made no distinctions, and that is the
reason for your mistake.” And he repeated the first stanza:—
“All have seen the Judas tree—
What is your perplexity?
No one asked the charioteer
What its form the livelong year!”
THE RIVER FISH AND THE MONEY
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was king of Benares, the Bodhisatta
was born in the family of a landed proprietor.
When he grew up, he became a wealthy man. He had a young brother.
Afterwards their father died. They determined to arrange some business
of their father’s. This took them to a village, where they were paid a
thousand pieces of money. On their way back, as they waited on a
river-bank for the boat, they ate a meal out of a leaf-pottle. The
Bodhisatta threw what he left into the Ganges for the fishes, giving the
merit to the river-spirit. The spirit accepted this with gratification,
which increased her divine power, and on thinking over this increase of
her power, became aware what had happened. The Bodhisatta laid his upper
garment upon the sand, and there he lay down and went to sleep.
Now the young brother was of a rather thievish nature. He wanted to
filch the money from the Bodhisatta and keep it himself; so he packed a
parcel of gravel to look like the parcel of money, and put them both
away.
When they had got aboard, and were come to mid-river, the younger
stumbled against the side of the boat, and dropped overboard the parcel
of gravel, as he thought, but really the money.
“Brother, the money’s overboard!” he cried. “What’s to be done?”
“What can we do? What’s gone is gone. Never mind about it,” replied the
other.
But the river-spirit thought how pleased she had been with the merit she
had received, and how her divine power had been increased, and resolved
to take care of his property. So by her power she made a big-mouthed
fish swallow the parcel, and took care of it herself.
When the thief got home, he chuckled over the trick he had served his
brother, and undid the remaining parcel. There was nothing but gravel to
be seen! His heart dried up; he fell on his bed, and clutched the
bedstead.
Now some fishermen just then cast their nets for a draught. By power of
the river-spirit, this fish fell into the net. The fishers took it to
town to sell. People asked what the price was.
“A thousand pieces and seven annas,” said the fishermen.
Everybody made fun of them. “We have seen a fish offered for a thousand
pieces!” they laughed.
The fishers brought their fish to the Bodhisatta’s door, and asked him
to buy it.
“What’s the price?” he asked.
“You may have it for seven annas,” they said.
“What did you ask other people for it?”
“From other people we asked a thousand rupees and seven annas; but you
may have it for seven annas,” they said.
He paid seven annas for it, and sent it to his wife. She cut it open,
and there was the parcel of money! She called the Bodhisatta. He gave a
look, and recognizing his mark, knew it for his own. Thought he, “These
fishers asked other people the price of a thousand rupees and seven
annas, but because the thousand rupees were mine, they let me have it
for seven annas only! If a man does not understand the meaning of this,
nothing will ever make him believe.”
When he had said this, he wondered how it was that he had recovered his
money. At the moment the river-spirit hovered invisibly in the air, and
declared—
“I am the Spirit of the Ganges. You gave the remains of your meal to the
fishes, and let me have the merit. Therefore I have taken care of your
property.”
Then the Spirit told about the mean trick which the younger brother had
played. Then she added, “There he lies, with his heart dried up within
him. There is no prosperity for the cheat. But I have brought you your
own, and I warn you not to lose it. Don’t give it to your young thief of
a brother, but keep it all yourself.”