FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[48]Moon-King.[49]The caste to which conjurors belong.[50]Gold pieces, worth about $7.50.[51]Areca catechu—the betel-nut palm.[52]A name of the Ganges.[53]SeeNotesat the end.

[48]Moon-King.

[49]The caste to which conjurors belong.

[50]Gold pieces, worth about $7.50.

[51]Areca catechu—the betel-nut palm.

[52]A name of the Ganges.

[53]SeeNotesat the end.

APOOR Milkwoman was once going into the town with cans full of milk to sell. She took with her her little daughter (a baby of about a year old), having no one in whose charge to leave her at home. Being tired, she sat down by the road-side, placing the child and the cans full of milk beside her; when, on a sudden, two large eagles flew overhead; and one, swooping down, seized the child, and flew away with her out of the mother’s sight.

Very far, far away the eagles carried the little baby, even beyond the borders of her native land, until they reached their home in a lofty tree. There the old eagles had built a great nest; it was made of iron and wood, and was as big as a little house; there was iron all round, and to get in and out you had to go through seven iron doors.

In this stronghold they placed the little baby, and because she was like a young eaglet they called her Surya Bai (the Sun Lady). The eagles both loved the child; and daily they flew into distant countries to bring her rich and precious things—clothes that had been made for princesses, precious jewels, wonderful playthings, all that was most costly and rare.

One day, when Surya Bai was twelve years old, theold husband Eagle said to his wife, “Wife, our daughter has no diamond ring on her little finger, such as princesses wear; let us go and fetch her one.” “Yes,” said the other old Eagle; “but to fetch it we must go very far.” “True,” rejoined he, “such a ring is not to be got nearer than the Red Sea, and that is a twelvemonth’s journey from here; nevertheless we will go.” So the Eagles started off, leaving Surya Bai in the strong nest, with twelve months’ provisions (that she might not be hungry whilst they were away), and a little dog and cat to take care of her.

Not long after they were gone, one day the naughty little cat stole some food from the store, for doing which Surya Bai punished her. The cat did not like being whipped, and she was still more annoyed at having been caught stealing; so, in revenge, she ran to the fireplace (they were obliged to keep a fire always burning in the Eagle’s nest, as Surya Bai never went down from the tree, and would not otherwise have been able to cook her dinner), and put out the fire. When the little girl saw this she was much vexed, for the cat had eaten their last cooked provisions, and she did not know what they were to do for food. For three whole days Surya Bai puzzled over the difficulty, and for three whole days she and the dog and the cat had nothing to eat. At last she thought she would climb to the edge of the nest, and see if she could see any fire in the country below; and, if so, she would go down and ask the people who lighted it to give her a little with which to cook her dinner. So she climbed to the edge of the nest. Then, very far away on the horizon, she saw a thin curl of blue smoke. So she let herself down from the tree, and all day long she walkedin the direction whence the smoke came. Toward evening she reached the place, and found it rose from a small hut in which sat an old woman warming her hands over a fire. Now, though Surya Bai did not know it, she had reached the Rakshas’ country, and this old woman was none other than a wicked old Rakshas, who lived with her son in the little hut. The young Rakshas, however, had gone out for the day. When the old Rakshas saw Surya Bai, she was much astonished, for the girl was beautiful as the sun, and her rich dress was resplendent with jewels; and she said to herself, “How lovely this child is; what a dainty morsel she would be! Oh, if my son were only here we would kill her, and boil her, and eat her. I will try and detain her till his return.” Then, turning to Surya Bai, she said, “Who are you, and what do you want?” Surya Bai answered, “I am the daughter of the great Eagles, but they have gone a far journey, to fetch me a diamond ring, and the fire has died out in the nest. Give me, I pray you, a little from your hearth.” The Rakshas replied, “You shall certainly have some, only first pound this rice for me, for I am old, and have no daughter to help me.” Then Surya Bai pounded the rice, but the young Rakshas had not returned by the time she had finished; so the old Rakshas said to her, “If you are kind, grind this corn for me, for it is hard work for my old hands.” Then she ground the corn, but still the young Rakshas came not; and the old Rakshas said to her, “Sweep the house for me first, and then I will give you the fire.” So Surya Bai swept the house; but still the young Rakshas did not come.

Then his mother said to Surya Bai, “Why shouldyou be in such a hurry to go home? fetch me some water from the well, and then you shall have the fire.” And she fetched the water. When she had done so, Surya Bai said, “I have done all your bidding, now give me the fire, or I will go elsewhere and seek it.”

The old Rakshas was grieved because her son had not returned home; but she saw she could detain Surya Bai no longer, so she said, “Take the fire and go in peace; take also some parched corn, and scatter it along the road as you go, so as to make a pretty little pathway from our house to yours,”—and so saying, she gave Surya Bai several handsful of parched corn. The girl took them, fearing no evil, and as she went she scattered the grains on the road. Then she climbed back into the nest and shut the seven iron doors, and lighted the fire, and cooked the food, and gave the dog and the cat some dinner, and took some herself, and went to sleep.

No sooner had Surya Bai left the Rakshas’ hut, than the young Rakshas returned, and his mother said to him, “Alas, alas, my son, why did not you come sooner? Such a sweet little lamb has been here, and now we have lost her.” Then she told him all about Surya Bai. “Which way did she go?” asked the young Rakshas; “only tell me that, and I’ll have her before morning.”

His mother told him how she had given Surya Bai the parched corn to scatter on the road; and when he heard that, he followed up the track, and ran, and ran, and ran, till he came to the foot of the tree.

There, looking up, he saw the nest high in the branches above them.

Quick as thought, up he climbed, and reached thegreat outer door; and he shook it, and shook it, but he could not get in, for Surya Bai had bolted it. Then he said, “Let me in, my child, let me in; I’m the great Eagle, and I have come from very far, and brought you many beautiful jewels; and here is a splendid diamond ring to fit your little finger.” But Surya Bai did not hear him—she was fast asleep.

He next tried to force open the door again, but it was too strong for him. In his efforts, however, he had broken off one of his finger nails (now the nail of a Rakshas is most poisonous), which he left sticking in the crack of the door when he went away.

Next morning Surya Bai opened all the doors, in order to look down on the world below; but when she came to the seventh door a sharp thing, which was sticking in it, ran into her hand, and immediately she fell down dead.

At that same moment the two poor old Eagles returned from their long twelvemonth’s journey, bringing a beautiful diamond ring, which they had fetched for their little favorite from the Red Sea.

There she lay on the threshold of the nest, beautiful as ever, but cold and dead.

The Eagles could not bear the sight; so they placed the ring on her finger, and then, with loud cries, flew off to return no more.

But a little while after there chanced to come by a great Rajah, who was out on a hunting expedition. He came with hawks, and hounds, and attendants, and horses, and pitched his camp under the tree in which the Eagles’ nest was built. Then looking up, he saw, amongst the topmost branches, what appeared like a queer little house; and he sent some of his attendants to see what it was. They soon returned, and told theRajah that up in the tree was a curious thing like a cage, having seven iron doors, and that on the threshold of the first door lay a fair maiden, richly dressed; that she was dead, and that beside her stood a little dog and a little cat.

At this the Rajah commanded that they should be fetched down, and when he saw Surya Bai he felt very sad to think that she was dead. And he took her hand to feel if it were already stiff; but all her limbs were supple, nor had she become cold, as the dead are cold; and, looking again at her hand, the Rajah saw that a sharp thing, like a long thorn, had run into the tender palm, almost far enough to pierce through to the back of her hand.

He pulled it out, and no sooner had he done so than Surya Bai opened her eyes, and stood up, crying, “Where am I? and who are you? Is it a dream, or true?”

The Rajah answered, “It is all true, beautiful lady. I am the Rajah of a neighboring land; pray tell me who are you?”

She replied, “I am the Eagles’ child.” But he laughed. “Nay,” he said, “that cannot be; you are some great Princess.” “No,” she answered, “I am no royal lady; what I say is true. I have lived all my life in this tree. I am only the Eagles’ child.”

Then the Rajah said, “If you are not a Princess born, I will make you one, say only you will be my Queen.”

Surya Bai consented, and the Rajah took her to his kingdom and made her his Queen. But Surya Bai was not his only wife, and the first Ranee, his other wife, was both envious and jealous of her.[54]

The Rajah gave Surya Bai many trustworthy attendants to guard her and be with her; and one old woman loved Surya Bai more than all the rest, and used to say to her, “Don’t be too intimate with the first Ranee, dear lady, for she wishes you no good, and she has power to do you harm. Some day she may poison or otherwise injure you;” but Surya Bai would answer her, “Nonsense! what is there to be alarmed about? Why cannot we both live happily together like two sisters?” Then the old woman would rejoin, “Ah, dear lady, may you never live to rue your confidence! I pray my fears may prove folly.” So Surya Bai went often to see the first Ranee, and the first Ranee also came often to see her.

One day they were standing in the palace courtyard, near a tank, where the Rajah’s people used to bathe, and the first Ranee said to Surya Bai, “What pretty jewels you have, sister! let me try them on for a minute, and see how I look in them.”

The old woman was standing beside Surya Bai, and she whispered to her, “Do not lend her your jewels.” “Hush, you silly old woman,” answered she. “What harm will it do?” and she gave the Ranee her jewels. Then the Ranee said, “How pretty all your things are! Do you not think they look well even on me? Let us come down to the tank; it is as clear as glass, and we can see ourselves reflected in it, and how these jewels will shine in the clear water!”

The old woman, hearing this, was much alarmed, and begged Surya Bai not to venture near the tank, but she said, “I bid you be silent; I will not distrust my sister,” and she went down to the tank. Then, when no one was near, and they were both leaning over, lookingat their reflections in the water, the first Ranee pushed Surya Bai into the tank, who, sinking under water, was drowned; and from the place where her body fell there sprang up a bright golden sunflower.

The Rajah shortly afterward inquired where Surya Bai was, but nowhere could she be found. Then, very angry, he came to the first Ranee and said, “Tell me where the child is? You have made away with her.” But she answered, “You do me wrong; I know nothing of her. Doubtless that old woman, whom you allowed to be always with her, has done her some harm.” So the Rajah ordered the poor old woman to be thrown into prison.

He tried to forget Surya Bai and all her pretty ways, but it was no good. Wherever he went he saw her face. Whatever he heard, he still listened for her voice. Every day he grew more miserable; he would not eat or drink; and as for the other Ranee, he could not bear to speak to her. All his people said, “He will surely die.”

When matters were in this state, the Rajah one day wandered to the edge of the tank, and bending over the parapet, looked into the water. Then he was surprised to see, growing out of the tank close beside him, a stately golden flower; and as he watched it, the sunflower gently bent its head and leaned down toward him. The Rajah’s heart was softened, and he kissed its leaves and murmured, “This flower reminds me of my lost wife. I love it, it is fair and gentle as she used to be.” And every day he would go down to the tank; and sit and watch the flower. When the Ranee heard this, she ordered her servants to go and dig the sunflower up, and to take it far into the jungle and burn it.Next time the Rajah went to the tank he found his flower gone, and he was much grieved, but none dare say who had done it.

Then, in the jungle, from the place where the ashes of the sunflower had been thrown, there sprang up a young mango tree, tall and straight, that grew so quickly, and became such a beautiful tree, that it was the wonder of all the country round. At last, on its topmost bough, came one fair blossom; and the blossom fell, and the little mango grew rosier and rosier, and larger and larger, till so wonderful was it both for size and shape that people flocked from far and near only to look at it.

But none ventured to gather it, for it was to be kept for the Rajah himself.

Now one day, the poor Milkwoman, Surya Bai’s mother, was returning homeward after her day’s work with the empty milk cans, and being very tired with her long walk to the bazaar, she lay down under the mango tree and fell asleep. Then, right into her largest milk can, fell the wonderful mango! When the poor woman awoke and saw what had happened, she was dreadfully frightened, and thought to herself, “If any one sees me with this wonderful fruit, that all the Rajah’s great people have been watching for so many, many weeks, they will never believe that I did not steal it, and I shall be put in prison. Yet it is no good leaving it here; besides, it fell off of itself into my milk can. I will therefore take it home as secretly as possible, and share it with my children.”

So the Milkwoman covered up the can in which the mango was, and took it quickly to her home, where she placed it in the corner of the room, and put over ita dozen other milk cans, piled one above another. Then, as soon as it was dark, she called her husband and eldest son (for she had six or seven children), and said to them, “What good fortune do you think has befallen me to-day?”

“We cannot guess,” they said. “Nothing less,” she went on, “than the wonderful, wonderful mango falling into one of my milk cans while I slept! I have brought it home with me; it is in that lowest can. Go, husband, call all the children to have a slice; and you, my son, take down that pile of cans and fetch me the mango.” “Mother,” he said, when he got to the lowest can, “you were joking, I suppose, when you told us there was a mango here.”

“No, not at all,” she answered; “there is a mango there. I put it there myself an hour ago.”

“Well, there’s something quite different now,” replied the son. “Come and see.”

The Milkwoman ran to the place, and there, in the lowest can, she saw, not the mango, but a little tiny wee lady, richly dressed in red and gold, and no bigger than a mango! On her head shone a bright jewel like a little sun.

“This is very odd,” said the mother. “I never heard of such a thing in my life! But since she has been sent to us, I will take care of her, as if she were my own child.”

Every day the little lady grew taller and taller, until she was the size of an ordinary woman; she was gentle and lovable, but always sad and quiet, and she said her name was “Surya Bai.”

The children were all very curious to know her history, but the Milkwoman and her husband would notlet her be teased to tell who she was, and said to the children, “Let us wait. By and by, when she knows us better, she will most likely tell us her story of her own accord.”

Now it came to pass that once, when Surya Bai was taking water from the well for the old Milkwoman, the Rajah rode by, and as he saw her walking along, he cried, “That is my wife,” and rode after her as fast as possible. Surya Bai hearing a great clatter of horses’ hoofs, was frightened, and ran home as fast as possible, and hid herself; and when the Rajah reached the place there was only the old Milkwoman to be seen standing at the door of her hut.

Then the Rajah said to her, “Give her up, old woman, you have no right to keep her; she is mine, she is mine!” But the old woman answered, “Are you mad? I don’t know what you mean.”

The Rajah replied, “Do not attempt to deceive me. I saw my wife go in at your door; she must be in the house.”

“Your wife?” screamed the old woman—“your wife? you mean my daughter, who lately returned from the well! Do you think I am going to give my child up at your command? You are Rajah in your palace, but I am Rajah in my own house; and I won’t give up my little daughter for any bidding of yours. Be off with you, or I’ll pull out your beard.” And so saying, she seized a long stick and attacked the Rajah, calling out loudly to her husband and sons, who came running to her aid.

The Rajah, seeing matters were against him, and having outridden his attendants (and not being quite certain moreover whether he had seen Surya Bai, orwhether she might not have been really the poor Milkwoman’s daughter), rode off and returned to his palace.

However, he determined to sift the matter. As a first step he went to see Surya Bai’s old attendant, who was still in prison. From her he learnt enough to make him believe she was not only entirely innocent of Surya Bai’s death, but gravely to suspect the first Ranee of having caused it. He therefore ordered the old woman to be set at liberty, still keeping a watchful eye on her, and bade her prove her devotion to her long-lost mistress by going to the Milkwoman’s house, and bringing him as much information as possible about the family, and more particularly about the girl he had seen returning from the well.

So the attendant went to the Milkwoman’s house, and made friends with her, and bought some milk, and afterward she stayed and talked to her.

After a few days the Milkwoman ceased to be suspicious of her, and became quite cordial.

Surya Bai’s attendant then told how she had been the late Ranee’s waiting-woman, and how the Rajah had thrown her into prison on her mistress’s death; in return for which intelligence the old Milkwoman imparted to her how the wonderful mango had tumbled into her can as she slept under the tree, and how it had miraculously changed in the course of an hour into a beautiful little lady. “I wonder why she should have chosen my poor house to live in, instead of any one else’s,” said the old woman.

Then Surya Bai’s attendant said, “Have you ever asked her her history? Perhaps she would not mind telling it to you now.”

So the Milkwoman called the girl, and as soon as the old attendant saw her, she knew it was none other than Surya Bai, and her heart jumped for joy; but she remained silent, wondering much, for she knew her mistress had been drowned in the tank.

The old Milkwoman turned to Surya Bai and said, “My child, you have lived long with us, and been a good daughter to me; but I have never asked you your history, because I thought it must be a sad one; but if you do not fear to tell it to me now, I should like to hear it.”

Surya Bai answered, “Mother, you speak true; my story is sad. I believe my real mother was a poor Milkwoman like you, and that she took me with her one day when I was quite a little baby, as she was going to sell milk in the bazaar. But being tired with the long walk, she sat down to rest, and placed me also on the ground, when suddenly a great Eagle flew down and carried me away. But all the father and mother I ever knew were the two great Eagles.”

“Ah, my child! my child!” cried the Milkwoman, “I was that poor woman; the Eagles flew away with my eldest girl when she was only a year old. Have I found you after these many years?”

And she ran and called all her children, and her husband, to tell them the wonderful news.

Then was there great rejoicing among them all.

When they were a little calmer, her mother said to Surya Bai, “Tell us, dear daughter, how your life has been spent since first we lost you.” And Surya Bai went on:

“The old Eagles took me away to their home, and there I lived happily many years. They loved to bringme all the beautiful things they could find, and at last one day they both went to fetch me a diamond ring from the Red Sea; but while they were gone the fire went out in the nest: so I went to an old woman’s hut, and got her to give me some fire; and next day (I don’t know how it was), as I was opening the outer door of the cage, a sharp thing, that was sticking in it, ran into my hand and I fell down senseless.

“I don’t know how long I lay there, but when I came to myself, I found the Eagles must have come back, and thought me dead, and gone away, for the diamond ring was on my little finger; a great many people were watching over me, and amongst them was a Rajah, who asked me to go home with him and be his wife, and he brought me to this place, and I was his Ranee.

“But his other wife, the first Ranee, hated me (for she was jealous), and desired to kill me; and one day she accomplished her purpose by pushing me into the tank, for I was young and foolish, and disregarded the warnings of my faithful old attendant, who begged me not to go near the place. Ah! if I had only listened to her words I might have been happy still.”

At these words the old attendant, who had been sitting in the back ground, rushed forward and kissed Surya Bai’s feet, crying, “Ah, my lady! my lady! have I found you at last!” and, without staying to hear more, she ran back to the palace to tell the Rajah the glad news.

Then Surya Bai told her parents how she had not wholly died in the tank, but became a sunflower; and how the first Ranee, seeing how fond the Rajah was of the plant, had caused it to be thrown away; andthen how she had risen from the ashes of the sunflower, in the form of a mango tree; and how when the tree blossomed all her spirit went into the little mango flower, and she ended by saying: “And when the flower became fruit, I know not by what irresistible impulse I was induced to throw myself into your milk can. Mother, it was my destiny, and as soon as you took me into your house, I began to recover my human form.”

“Why, then,” asked her brothers and sisters, “why do you not tell the Rajah that you are living, and that you are the Ranee Surya Bai?”

“Alas,” she answered, “I could not do that. Who knows but that he may be influenced by the first Ranee, and also desire my death. Let me rather be poor like you, but safe from danger.”

Then her mother cried, “Oh, what a stupid woman I am! The Rajah one day came seeking you here, but I and your father and brothers drove him away, for we did not know you were indeed the lost Ranee.”

As she spoke these words a sound of horses’ hoofs was heard in the distance, and the Rajah himself appeared, having heard the good news of Surya Bai’s being alive from her old attendant.

It is impossible to tell the joy of the Rajah at finding his long-lost wife, but it was not greater than Surya Bai’s at being restored to her husband.

Then the Rajah turned to the old Milkwoman and said, “Old woman, you did not tell me true, for it was indeed my wife who was in your hut.” “Yes, Protector of the Poor,” answered the old Milkwoman, “but it was also my daughter.” Then they told him how Surya Bai was the Milkwoman’s child.

At hearing this the Rajah commanded them all to return with him to the palace. He gave Surya Bai’s father a village, and ennobled the family; and he said to Surya Bai’s old attendant, “For the good service you have done you shall be palace housekeeper,” and he gave her great riches; adding, “I can never repay the debt I owe you, nor make you sufficient recompense for having caused you to be unjustly cast into prison.” But she replied, “Sire, even in your anger you were temperate; if you had caused me to be put to death, as some would have done, none of this good might have come upon you; it is yourself you have to thank.”

The wicked first Ranee was cast, for the rest of her life, into the prison in which the old attendant had been thrown; but Surya Bai lived happily with her husband the rest of her days; and in memory of her adventures, he planted round their palace a hedge of sunflowers and a grove of mango trees.

FOOTNOTE:[54]SeeNotesat the end.

[54]SeeNotesat the end.

THERE was once upon a time a Rajah named Vicram Maharajah,[55]who had a Wuzeer named Butti.[56]Both the Rajah and his minister were left orphans when very young, and ever since their parents’ death they had lived together: they were educated together, and they loved each other tenderly—like brothers.

Both were good and kind—no poor man coming to the Rajah was ever known to have been sent away disappointed, for it was his delight to give food and clothes to those in need. But whilst the Wuzeer had much judgment and discretion, as well as a brilliant fancy, the Rajah was too apt to allow his imagination to run away with his reason.

Under their united rule, however, the kingdom prospered greatly. The Rajah was the spur of every noble work, and the Wuzeer the curb to every rash or impracticable project.

In a country some way from Rajah Vicram’s there lived a little Queen, called Anar Ranee (the Pomegranate Queen). Her father and mother reigned over the Pomegranate country, and for her they had made a beautiful garden. In the middle of the garden was a lovely pomegranate tree, bearing three largepomegranates. They opened in the centre, and in each was a little bed. In one of them Anar Ranee used to sleep, and in the pomegranates on either side slept two of her maids.

Every morning early the pomegranate tree would gently bend its branches to the ground, and the fruit would open, and Anar Ranee and her attendants creep out to play under the shadow of the cool tree until the evening; and each evening the tree again bent down to enable them to get into their tiny, snug bed-rooms.

Many princes wished to marry Anar Ranee, for she was said to be the fairest lady upon earth: her hair was black as a raven’s wing, her eyes like the eyes of a gazelle, her teeth two rows of exquisite pearls, and her cheeks the color of the rosy pomegranate. But her father and mother had caused her garden to be hedged around with seven hedges made of bayonets, so that none could go in or out; and they had published a decree that none should marry her but he who could enter the garden and gather the three pomegranates, in which she and her two maids slept. To do this, kings, princes and nobles innumerable had striven, but striven in vain.

Some never got past the first sharp hedge of bayonets; others, more fortunate, surmounted the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, or even the sixth; but there perished miserably, being unable to climb the seventh. None had ever succeeded in entering the garden.

Before Vicram Maharajah’s father and mother died, they had built, some way from their palace, a very beautiful temple. It was of marble, and in the centre stood an idol made of pure gold. But in course of timethe jungle had grown up round it, and thick straggling plants of prickly pear had covered it, so that it was difficult even to find out whereabouts it was.

Then, one day, the Wuzeer Butti said to Vicram Maharajah, “The temple your father and mother built at so much pains and cost is almost lost in the jungle, and will probably ere long be in ruins. It would be a pious work to find it out and restore it.” Vicram Maharajah agreed, and immediately sent for many workmen, and caused the jungle to be cut down and the temple restored. All were much astonished to find what a beautiful place it was! The floor was white marble, the walls exquisitely carved in bas-reliefs and gorgeously colored, while all over the ceiling was painted Vicram Maharajah’s father’s name, and in the centre was a golden image of Gunputti, to whom it was dedicated.

The Rajah Vicram was so pleased with the beauty of the place that on that account, as well as because of its sanctity, he and Butti used to go and sleep there every night.

One night Vicram had a wonderful dream. He dreamed his father appeared to him and said, “Arise, Vicram, go to the tower for lights[57]which is in front of this temple.”

(For there was in front of the temple a beautiful tower or pyramid for lights, and all the way up it were projections on which to place candles on days dedicated to the idol; so that when the whole was lighted it looked like a gigantic candlestick, and to guard it there were around it seven hedges made of bayonets.)

“Arise, Vicram, therefore,” said the vision; “go tothe tower for lights; below it is a vast amount of treasure, but you can only get it in one way without incurring the anger of Gunputti. You must first do in his honor an act of very great devotion, which if he graciously approve, and consent to preserve your life therein, you may with safety remove the treasure.”

“And what is this act of devotion?” asked Vicram Maharajah.

“It is this,” (he thought his father answered): “You must fasten a rope to the top of the tower, and to the other end of the rope attach a basket, into which you must get head downward, then twist the rope by which the basket is hung three times, and as it is untwisting, cut it, when you will fall head downward to the earth.

“If you fall on either of the hedges of bayonets, you will be instantly killed; but Gunputti is merciful—do not fear that he will allow you to be slain. If you escape unhurt, you will know that he has accepted your pious act, and may without danger take the treasure.”[58]

The vision faded; Vicram saw no more, and shortly afterward he awoke.

Then, turning to the Wuzeer, he said, “Butti, I had a strange dream. I dreamed my father counseled me to do an act of great devotion; nothing less than fastening a basket by a rope to the top of the tower for lights, and getting into it head downward, then cutting the rope and allowing myself to fall; by which having propitiated the divinity, he promised me a vast treasure, to be found by digging under the tower! What do you think I had better do?”

“My advice,” answered the Wuzeer, “is, if you careto seek the treasure, to do entirely as your father commanded, trusting in the mercy of Gunputti.”

So the Rajah caused a basket to be fastened by a rope to the top of the tower, and got into it head downward; then he called out to Butti, “How can I cut the rope?” “Nothing is easier,” answered he; “take this sword in your hand. I will twist the rope three times, and as it untwists for the first time let the sword fall upon it.” Vicram Maharajah took the sword, and Butti twisted the rope, and as it first began to untwist, the Rajah cut it, and the basket immediately fell. It would have certainly gone down among the bayonets, and he been instantly killed, had not Gunputti, seeing the danger of his devotee, rushed out of the temple at that moment in the form of an old woman, who, catching the basket in her arms before it touched the bayonets, brought it gently and safely to the ground; having done which she instantly returned into the temple. None of the spectators knew she was Gunputti himself in disguise; they only thought “What a clever old woman!”

Vicram Maharajah then caused excavations to be made below the tower, under which he found an immense amount of treasure. There were mountains of gold, there were diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires, and emeralds, and turquoises, and pearls; but he took none of them, causing all to be sold and the money given to the poor, so little did he care for the riches for which some men sell their bodies and souls.

Another day, the Rajah, when in the temple, dreamed again. Again his father appeared to him, and this time he said, “Vicram, come daily to this temple and Gunputti will teach you wisdom, and you shall getunderstanding. You may get learning in the world, but wisdom is the fruit of much learning and much experience, and much love to God and man; wherefore, come, acquire wisdom, for learning perishes, but wisdom never dies.” When the Rajah awoke, he told his dream to the Wuzeer, and Butti recommended him to obey his father’s counsel, which he accordingly did.

Daily he resorted to the temple and was instructed by Gunputti; and when he had learnt much, one day Gunputti said to him, “I have given you as much wisdom as is in keeping with man’s finite comprehension; now, as a parting gift, ask of me what you will and it shall be yours—or riches, or power, or beauty, or long life, or health, or happiness—choose what you will have?” The Rajah was very much puzzled, and he begged leave to be allowed a day to think over the matter, and decide what he would choose, to which Gunputti assented.

Now it happened that near the palace there lived the son of a Carpenter, who was very cunning, and when he heard that the Rajah went to the temple to learn wisdom, he also determined to go and see if he could not learn it also; and each day, when Gunputti gave Vicram Maharajah instruction, the Carpenter’s son would hide close behind the temple, and overhear all their conversation; so that he also became very wise. No sooner, therefore, did he hear Gunputti’s offer to Vicram than he determined to return again when the Rajah did, and find out in what way he was to procure the promised gift, whatever it was.

The Rajah consulted Butti as to what he should ask for, saying, “I have riches more than enough; I have also sufficient power, and for the rest I had soonertake my chance with other men, which makes me much at a loss to know what to choose.”

The Wuzeer answered, “Is there any supernatural power you at all desire to possess? If so, ask for that.” “Yes,” replied the Rajah, “it has always been a great desire of mine to have power to leave my own body when I will, and translate my soul and sense into some other body, either of man or animal. I would rather be able to do that than anything else.” “Then,” said the Wuzeer, “ask Gunputti to give you the power.”

Next morning the Rajah, having bathed and prayed, went in great state to the temple to have his final interview with the idol. And the Carpenter’s son went too, in order to overhear it.

Then Gunputti said to the Rajah, “Vicram, what gift do you choose?” “Oh, divine Power,” answered the Rajah, “you have already given me a sufficiency of wealth and power, in making me Rajah; neither care I for more of beauty than I now possess; and of long life, health and happiness I had rather take my share with other men. But there is a power which I would rather own than all that you have offered.”

“Name it, O good son of a good father,” said Gunputti.

“Most Wise,” replied Vicram, “give me the power to leave my own body when I will, and translate my soul, and sense, and thinking powers into any other body that I may choose, either of man, or bird, or beast—whether for a day, or a year, or for twelve years, or as long as I like; grant also, that however long the term of my absence, my body may not decay, but that, when I please to return to it again, I may find it still as when I left it.”

“Vicram,” answered Gunputti, “your prayer is heard,” and he instructed Vicram Maharajah by what means he should translate his soul into another body, and also gave him something which, being placed within his own body when he left it, would preserve it from decay until his return.[59]

The Carpenter’s son, who had been all this time listening outside the temple, heard and learnt the spell whereby Gunputti gave Vicram Maharajah power to enter into any other body; but he could not see nor find out what was given to the Rajah to place within his own body when he left it, to preserve it; so that he was only master of half the secret.

Vicram Maharajah returned home, and told the Wuzeer that he was possessed of the much-desired secret. “Then,” said Butti, “the best use you can put it to is to fly to the Pomegranate country, and bring Anar Ranee here.”

“How can that be done?” asked the Rajah. “Thus,” replied Butti; “transport yourself into the body of a parrot, in which shape you will be able to fly over the seven hedges of bayonets that surround her garden. Go to the tree in the centre of it, bite off the stalks of the pomegranates and bring them home in your beak.”

“Very well,” said the Rajah, and he picked up a parrot which lay dead on the ground, and placing within his own body the beauty-preserving charm, transported his soul into the parrot, and flew off.

On, on, on he went, over the hills and far away, until he came to the garden. Then he flew over the seven hedges of bayonets, and with his beak broke off thethree pomegranates (in which were Anar Ranee and her two ladies), and holding them by the stalks brought them safely home. He then immediately left the parrot’s body and re-entered his own body.

When Butti saw how well he had accomplished the feat, he said, “Thank heaven! there’s some good done already.” All who saw Anar Ranee were astonished at her beauty, for she was fair as a lotus flower, and the color on her cheeks was like the deep rich color of a pomegranate, and all thought the Rajah very wise to have chosen such a wife.

They had a magnificent wedding, and were for a short time as happy as the day is long.

But within a little while Vicram Maharajah said to Butti, “I have again a great desire to see the world.” “What!” said Butti, “so soon again to leave your home! So soon to care to go away from your young wife!”

“I love her and my people dearly,” answered the Rajah; “but I cannot but feel that I have this supernatural power of taking any form I please, and longing to use it.” “Where and how will you go?” asked the Wuzeer. “Let it be the day after to-morrow,” answered Vicram Maharajah. “I shall again take the form of a parrot, and see as much of the world as possible.”

So it was settled that the Rajah should go. He left his kingdom in the Wuzeer’s sole charge, and also his wife, saying to her, “I don’t know for how long I may be away; perhaps a day, perhaps a year, perhaps more. But if, while I am gone, you should be in any difficulty, apply to the Wuzeer. He has ever been like an elder brother or a father to me; do you therefore also regardhim as a father. I have charged him to take care of you as he would of his own child.”

Having said these words, the Rajah caused a beautiful parrot to be shot (it was a very handsome bird, with a tuft of bright feathers on its head and a ring about its neck). He then cut a small incision in his arm and rubbed into it some of the magic preservative given him by Gunputti to keep his body from decaying, and transporting his soul into the parrot’s body, he flew away.

No sooner did the Carpenter’s son hear that the Rajah was as dead, than, knowing the power of which Vicram Maharajah and he were alike possessed, he felt certain that the former had made use of it, and determined himself likewise to turn it to account. Therefore, directly the Rajah entered the parrot’s body, the Carpenter’s son entered the Rajah’s body, and the world at large imagined that the Rajah had only swooned and recovered. But the Wuzeer was wiser than they, and immediately thought to himself, “Some one beside Vicram Maharajah must have become acquainted with this spell, and be now making use of it, thinking it would be very amusing to play the part of Rajah for a while; but I’ll soon discover if this be the case or no.”

So he called Anar Ranee and said to her, “You are as well assured as I am that your husband left us but now, in the form of a parrot; but scarcely had he gone before his deserted body arose, and he now appears walking about, and talking, and as much alive as ever; nevertheless, my opinion is, that the spirit animating the body is not the spirit of the Rajah, but that some one else is possessed of the power given to him by Gunputti, and has taken advantage of it to personate him.But this it would be better to put to the proof. Do, therefore, as I tell you, that you may be assured of the truth of my words. Make to-day for your husband’s dinner some very coarse and common currie, and give it to him. If he complains that it is not as good as usual, I am making a mistake; but if, on the contrary, he says nothing about it, you will know that my words are true, and that he is not Vicram Maharajah.”

Anar Ranee did as the Wuzeer advised, and afterward came to him and said, “Father” (for so she always called him), “I have been much astonished at the result of the trial. I made the currie very carelessly, and it was as coarse and common as possible; but the Rajah did not even complain. I feel convinced it is as you say; but what can we do?”

“We will not,” answered the Wuzeer, “cast him into prison, since he inhabits your husband’s body; but neither you, nor any of the Rajah’s relations, must have any friendship with, or so much as speak to him; and if he speak to any of you, let whoever it be, immediately begin to quarrel with him, whereby he will find the life of a rajah not so agreeable as he anticipated, and may be induced the sooner to return to his proper form.”

Anar Ranee instructed all her husband’s relations and friends as Butti had advised, and the Carpenter’s son began to think the life of a rajah not at all as pleasant as he had fancied, and would, if he could, have gladly returned to his own body again; but, having no power to preserve it, his spirit had no sooner left it than it began to decay, and at the end of three days it was quite destroyed; so that the unhappy man had no alternative but to remain where he was.

Meantime, the real Vicram Maharajah had flown, in the form of a parrot, very far, far away, until he reached a large banyan tree, where there were a thousand other pretty pollies, whom he joined, making their number a thousand and one. Every day the parrots flew away to get food, and every night they returned to roost in the great banyan tree.

Now it chanced that a hunter had often gone through that part of the jungle, and noticed the banyan tree and the parrots, and he said to himself, “If I could only catch the thousand and one parrots that nightly roost in that tree, I should not be so often hungry as I am now, for they would make plenty of very nice currie.” But he could not do it, though he often tried; for the trunks of the tree were tall and straight, and very slippery, so that he no sooner climbed up a little way than he slid down again: however, he did not cease to look and long.

One day, a heavy shower of rain drove all the parrots back earlier than usual to their tree, and when they got there they found a thousand crows who had come on their homeward flight to shelter themselves there till the storm was over.

Then Vicram Maharajah Parrot said to the other parrots, “Do you not see these crows have all sorts of seeds and fruits in their beaks, which they are carrying home to their little ones? Let us quickly drive them away, lest some of these fall down under our tree, which, being sown there, will spring up strong plants and twine round the trunks, and enable our enemy the hunter to climb up with ease and kill us all.”

But the other parrots answered, “That is a very far-fetched idea! Do not let us hunt the poor birds awayfrom shelter in this pouring rain, they will get so wet.” So the crows were not molested. It turned out, however, just as Vicram Maharajah had foretold; for some of the fruits and seeds they were taking home to their young ones fell under the tree, and the seeds took root and sprang up, strong creeping plants, which twined all round the straight trunks of the banyan tree, and made it very easy to climb.

Next time the hunter came by he noticed this, and saying, “Ah, my fine friends, I’ve got you at last,” he, by the help of the creepers, climbed the tree, and set one thousand and one snares of fine thread among the branches; having done which he went away.

That night, when the parrots flew down on the branches as usual, they found themselves all caught fast prisoners by the feet.

“Crick! crick! crick!” cried they, “crick! crick! crick! Oh dear! oh dear! what shall we do? what can we do? Oh, Vicram Maharajah, you were right and we were wrong. Oh dear! oh dear! crick! crick! crick!”

Then Vicram said, “Did I not tell you how it would be? But do as I bid you, and we may yet be saved. So soon as the hunter comes to take us away, let every one hang his head down on one side, as if he were dead; then, thinking us dead, he will not trouble himself to wring our necks, or stick the heads of those he wishes to keep alive through his belt, as he otherwise would; but will merely release us, and throw us on the ground. Let each one when there, remain perfectly still, till the whole thousand and one are set free, and the hunter begins to descend the tree; then we will all fly up over his head and far out of sight.”

The parrots agreed to do as Vicram Maharajah Parrot proposed, and when the hunter came next morning to take them away, every one had his eyes shut and his head hanging down on one side, as if he were dead. Then the hunter said, “All dead, indeed! Then I shall have plenty of nice currie.” And so saying, he cut the noose that held the first, and threw him down. The parrot fell like a stone to the ground, so did the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, the tenth, and so on—up to the thousandth parrot. Now the thousandth and first chanced to be none other than Vicram; all were released but he. But, just as the hunter was going to cut the noose round his feet, he let his knife fall, and had to go down and pick it up again. When the thousand parrots who were on the ground, heard him coming down, they thought, “The thousand and one are all released, and here comes the hunter; it is time for us to be off.” And with one accord they flew up into the air and far out of sight, leaving poor Vicram Maharajah still a prisoner.

The hunter, seeing what had happened, was very angry, and seizing Vicram, said to him, “You wretched bird! it’s you that have worked all this mischief. I know it must be, for you are a stranger here, and different to the other parrots. I’ll strangle you, at all events—that I will.” But to his surprise, the parrot answered him, “Do not kill me. What good will that do you? Rather sell me in the next town. I am very handsome. You will get a thousand gold mohurs[60]for me.”

“A thousand gold mohurs!” answered the hunter,much astonished. “You silly bird, who’d be so foolish as to give a thousand gold mohurs for a parrot?” “Never mind,” said Vicram, “only take me and try.”

So the hunter took him into the town, crying “Who’ll buy? who’ll buy? Come buy this pretty polly that can talk so nicely. See how handsome he is—see what a great red ring he has round his neck. Who’ll buy? who’ll buy?”

Then several people asked how much he would take for the parrot; but when he said a thousand gold mohurs, they all laughed and went away, saying “None but a fool would give so much for a bird.”

At last the hunter got angry, and he said to Vicram, “I told you how it would be. I shall never be able to sell you.” But he answered, “Oh yes, you will. See here comes a merchant down this way; I dare say he will buy me.” So the hunter went to the merchant and said to him, “Pray, sir, buy my pretty parrot.” “How much do you want for him?” asked the merchant—“two rupees?”[61]“No, sir,” answered the hunter; “I cannot part with him for less than a thousand gold mohurs.” “A thousand gold mohurs!” cried the merchant, “a thousand gold mohurs! I never heard of such a thing in my life! A thousand gold mohurs for one little wee polly! Why, with that sum you might buy a house, or gardens, or horses, or ten thousand yards of the best cloth. Who’s going to give you such a sum for a parrot? Not I, indeed. I’ll give you two rupees and no more.” But Vicram called out, “Merchant, merchant, do not fear to buy me. I am Vicram Maharajah Parrot. Pay what the hunterasks, and I will repay it to you—buy me only, and I will keep your shop.”

“Polly,” answered the merchant, “what nonsense you talk!” But he took a fancy to the bird, and paid the hunter a thousand gold mohurs, and taking Vicram Maharajah home, hung him up in his shop.

Then the Parrot took on him the duties of shopman, and talked so much and so wisely that every one in the town soon heard of the merchant’s wonderful bird. Nobody cared to go to any other shop—all came to his shop, only to hear the Parrot talk; and he sold them what they wanted, and they did not care how much he charged for what he sold, but gave him whatever he asked; insomuch, that in one week the merchant had made a thousand gold mohurs over and above his usual weekly profits; and there Vicram Maharajah Parrot lived for a long time, made much of by everybody, and very happy.

It happened in the town where the merchant lived there was a very accomplished Nautch girl,[62]named Champa Ranee.[63]She danced so beautifully that the people of the town used always to send for her to dance on the occasion of any great festival.

There also lived in the town a poor wood-cutter, who earned his living by going out far into the jungle to cut wood, and bringing it in every day, into the bazaar to sell.

One day he went out as usual into the jungle to cut wood, and being tired, he fell asleep under a tree and began to dream; and he dreamed that he was a veryrich man, and that he married the beautiful Nautch girl, and that he took her home to his house, and gave his wife, as a wedding present, a thousand gold mohurs!

When he went into the bazaar that evening as usual to sell wood, he began telling his dream to his friends, saying, “While I was in the jungle I had such an absurd dream; I dreamed that I was a rich man, and that I married the Champa Ranee, and gave her as a wedding present a thousand gold mohurs!” “What a funny dream!” they cried, and thought no more of it.

But it happened that the house under which he was standing whilst talking to his friends was Champa Ranee’s house, and Champa Ranee herself was near the window, and heard what he said, and thought to herself, “For all that man looks so poor, he has then a thousand gold mohurs, or he would not have dreamed of giving them to his wife; if that is all, I’ll go to law about it, and see if I can’t get the money.”

So she sent out her servants and ordered them to catch the poor wood-cutter; and when they caught him, she began crying out, “Oh husband! husband! here have I been waiting ever so long, wondering what has become of you; where have you been all this time?” He answered, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. You’re a great lady and I’m a poor wood-cutter; you must mistake me for somebody else.”

But she answered, “Oh no! don’t you remember we were married on such and such a day! Have you forgotten what a grand wedding it was, and you took me home to your palace, and promised to give me as a wedding present a thousand gold mohurs? But youquite forgot to give me the money, and you went away, and I returned to my father’s house till I could learn tidings of you; how can you be so cruel?”

The poor wood-cutter thought he must be dreaming, but all Champa Ranee’s friends and relations declared that what she said was true. Then, after much quarreling, they said they would go to law about it; but the judge could not settle the matter, and referred it to the Rajah himself. The Rajah was no less puzzled than the judge. The wood-cutter protested that he was only a poor wood-cutter; but Champa Ranee and her friends asserted that he was, on the contrary, a rich man, her husband, and had had much money, which he must have squandered. She offered, however, to give up all claim to that, if he would only give her a thousand gold mohurs, which he had promised; and so suggested a compromise. The wood-cutter replied that he would gladly give the gold mohurs if he had them; but that (as he brought witnesses to prove) he was really and truly what he professed to be—only a poor wood-cutter, who earned two annas[64]a day cutting wood, and had neither palace nor riches nor wife in the world! The whole city was interested in this curious case, and all wondered how it would end; some being sure one side was right, and some equally certain of the other.

The Rajah could make nothing of the matter, and at last he said: “I hear there is a merchant in this town who has a very wise parrot, wiser than most men are; let him be sent for to decide this business, for it is beyond me; we will abide by his decision.”

So Vicram Maharajah Parrot was sent for, andplaced in the court of justice, to hear and judge the case.

First he said to the wood-cutter, “Tell me your version of the story.” And the wood-cutter answered, “Polly, Sahib, what I tell is true. I am a poor man. I live in the jungle, and earn my living by cutting wood and selling it in the bazaar. I never get more than two annas a day. One day I fell asleep and dreamed a silly dream—how I had become rich and married the Champa Ranee, and had given her as a wedding present a thousand gold mohurs; but it is no more true that I owed her a thousand gold mohurs, or have them to pay, than that I married her.”

“That is enough,” said Vicram Maharajah. “Now, dancing girl, tell us your story.” And Champa Ranee gave her version of the matter. Then the Parrot said to her, “Tell me now where was the house of this husband of yours, to which he took you?” “Oh!” she answered; “very far away, I don’t know how far, in the jungles.” “How long ago was it?” asked he. “At such and such a time,” she replied. Then he called credible and trustworthy witnesses, who proved that Champa Ranee had never left the city at the time she mentioned. After hearing whom, the Parrot said to her, “Is it possible that you can have the folly to think any one would believe that you would leave your rich and costly home to go a long journey into the jungle? It is now satisfactorily proved that you did not do it; you had better give up all claim to the thousand gold mohurs.”

But this the Nautch girl would not do. The Parrot then called for a money-lender, and begged of him the loan of a thousand gold mohurs, which he placedin a great bottle, putting the stopper in, and sealing it securely down; he then gave it to the Nautch girl, and said, “Get this money if you can, without breaking the seal or breaking the bottle.” She answered, “It cannot be done.” “No more,” replied Vicram Maharajah, “can what you desire be done. You cannot force a poor man, who has no money in the world, to pay you a thousand gold mohurs.

“Let the prisoner go free! Begone, Champa Ranee. Dancing girl! you are a liar and a thief; go rob the rich if you will, but meddle no more with the poor.”

All applauded Vicram Maharajah Parrot’s decision, and said, “Was ever such a wonderful bird!” But Champa Ranee was extremely angry, and said to him, “Very well, nasty polly; nasty, stupid polly! be assured before long I will get you in my power, and when I do, I will bite off your head!”

“Try your worst, madam,” answered Vicram; “but in return, I tell you this—I will live to make you a beggar. Your house shall be, by your own order, laid even with the ground, and you for grief and rage shall kill yourself.”

“Agreed,” said Champa Ranee; “we will soon see whose words come true—mine or yours;” and so saying, she returned home.

The merchant took Vicram Maharajah back to his shop, and a week passed without adventure; a fortnight passed, but still nothing particular happened. At the end of this time the merchant’s eldest son was married, and in honor of the occasion, the merchant ordered that a clever dancing-girl should be sent for, to dance before the guests. Champa Ranee came, and danced so beautifully that every one was delighted;and the merchant was much pleased, and said to her, “You have done your work very well, and in payment you may choose what you like out of my shop or house, and it shall be yours—whether jewels or rich cloth, or whatever it is.”

She replied, “I desire nothing of the kind: of jewels and rich stuffs I have more than enough, but you shall give me your pretty little parrot; I like it much, and that is the only payment I will take.”

The merchant felt very much vexed, for he had never thought the Nautch girl would ask for the parrot which he was so fond of, and which had been so profitable to him; he felt he would rather have parted with anything he possessed than that; nevertheless, having promised, he was bound to keep his word, so, with many tears, he went to fetch his favorite. But Polly cried, “Don’t be vexed, master; give me to the girl; I can take good care of myself.”

So Champa Ranee took Vicram Maharajah Parrot home with her; and no sooner did she get there than she sent for one of her maids, and said, “Quick, take this parrot and boil him for my supper; but first cut off his head and bring it to me on a plate, grilled; for I will eat it before tasting any other dish.”

“What nonsensical idea is this of our mistress,” said the maid to another, as she took the parrot into the kitchen; “to think of eating a grilled parrot’s head!” “Never mind,” said the other; “you’d better prepare it as she bids you, or she’ll be very cross.” Then the maid who had received the order began plucking the long feathers out of Vicram Maharajah’s wings, he all the time hanging down his head, so that she thought he was dead. Then, going to fetch some water in whichto boil him, she laid him down close to the place where they washed the dishes. Now, the kitchen was on the ground floor, and there was a hole right through the wall, into which the water used in washing the dishes ran, and through which all the scraps, bones, peelings and parings were washed away after the daily cooking; and in this hole Vicram Maharajah hid himself, quick as thought.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” cried the maid when she returned. “What can I do? what will my mistress say? I only turned my back for one moment, and the parrot’s gone.” “Very likely,” answered the other maid, “some cat has taken it away. It could not have been alive, and flown or run away, or I should have seen it go; but never fear, a chicken will do very well for her instead.”

Then they took a chicken and boiled it, and grilled the head and took it to their mistress; and she ate it, little bit by little bit, saying as she did so—

“Ah, pretty polly! so here’s the end of you! This is the brain that thought so cunningly and devised my overthrow! this is the tongue that spoke against me! this is the throat through which came the threatening words! Aha! who is right now, I wonder?”

Vicram, in the hole close by, heard her and felt very much alarmed; for he thought, “If she should catch me after all!” He could not fly away, for all his wing feathers had been pulled out; so there he had to stay some time, living on the scraps that were washed into the hole in the washing of the plates, and perpetually exposed to danger of being drowned in the streams of water that were poured through it. At last, however, his new feathers were sufficiently grown to bear him,and he flew away to a little temple in the jungle some way off, where he perched behind the idol.

It happened that Champa Ranee used to go to that temple, and he had not been there long before she came there to worship her idol.

She fell on her knees before the image, and began to pray. Her prayer was that the god would transport her body and soul to heaven (for she had a horror of dying), and she cried, “Only grant my prayer—only let this be so, and I will do anything you wish—anything—anything.”

Vicram Maharajah was hidden behind the image and heard her, and said—

“Champa Ranee Nautch girl, your prayer is heard!” (She thought the idol himself was speaking to her, and listened attentively.) “This is what you must do: sell all you possess, and give the money to the poor; you must also give money to all your servants and dismiss them. Level also your house to the ground, that you may be wholly separated from earth. Then you will be fit for heaven. Come, having done all I command you, on this day week to this place, and you shall be transported thither body and soul.”

Champa Ranee believed what she heard, and forgetful of Vicram Maharajah Parrot’s threat, hastened to do as she was bidden. She sold her possessions, and gave all the money to the poor; razed her house to the ground, and dismissed her servants; which being accomplished, on the day appointed she went to the temple, and sat on the edge of a well outside it, explaining to the assembled people how the idol himself had spoken to her, and how they would shortly see her caught up to heaven, and thus her departure from theworld would be even more celebrated than her doings whilst in it. All the people listened eagerly to her words, for they believed her inspired, and to see her ascension the whole city had come out, with hundreds and hundreds of strangers and travelers, princes, merchants and nobles, from far and near, all full of expectation and curiosity.

Then, as they waited, a fluttering of little wings was heard, and a parrot flew over Champa Ranee’s head, calling out, “Nautch girl! Nautch girl! what have you done?” Champa Ranee recognized the voice as Vicram’s; he went on: “Will you go body and soul to heaven? have you forgotten polly’s words?”

Champa Ranee rushed into the temple, and, falling on her knees before the idol, cried out, “Gracious Power, I have done all as you commanded; let your words come true; save me; take me to heaven.”

But the Parrot above her cried, “Good-bye, Champa Ranee, good-bye; you ate a chicken’s head, not mine. Where is your house now? where your servants and all your possessions? Have my words come true, think you, or yours?”

Then the woman saw all, and in her rage and despair, cursing her own folly, she fell violently down on the floor of the temple, and dashing her head against the stone, killed herself.

It was now two years since the Rajah Vicram left his kingdom; and about six months before, Butti, in despair of his ever returning, had set out to seek for him. Up and down through many countries had he gone, searching for his master, but without success. As good fortune would have it, however, he chanced to be one of those strangers who had come to witnessthe Nautch girl’s translation, and no sooner did he see the Parrot which spoke to her than in him he recognized Vicram. The Rajah also saw him, and flew on to his shoulder, upon which Butti caught him, put him in a cage and took him home.

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