Part 2

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.