Part 5

“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.”

Thus spoke the Spirit, not wishing that the treacherous villain should receive the money. But the Bodhisatta said, “That is impossible,” and all the same sent the brother five hundred.

THE DREAMER IN THE WOOD

Now the Buddha once upon a time lived alone in the woods, in the ecstasy of meditation. For wild fruits he went no further afield. When fruit grew upon the tree, he ate the fruit; in time of flowers, he ate flowers. When the leaves grew, he ate leaves. When leaves were none, he ate the bark of trees. Thus, in the highest contentment he lived a long time in that place.

Now on a day, Sakka, the King of the gods, appeared before him and, wishing to test him, said: “Behold yon man, all black of hue, my spirit likes him not.”

Now by his divine insight the Buddha knew that Sakka spoke to him. And he made answer and said:

“Though black of hue, I am a true Brahmin. A man is not black by reason of his outer skin; only can sin make him black.” Thus he discoursed to Sakka, and it was as he had made the moon to rise in the sky. And the god asked him what boon he would crave.

And the Divine being asked to be free of three things: malice, hatred and greed.

Then Sakka: “What is bad in these things?” And Buddha made answer, “Because hatred grows from small to great and is ever full of bitterness. Malice brings evil. First word, then touch, next fist, then staff, and last the swordstroke flashing free. When men are urged by greed, then arise fraud and deceit and swift pursuit of savage loot——”

“Then,” said Sakka, “choose another boon.”

Then said the Buddha, “Grant that in the woods where I live alone, no disease may mar my peace, or break my ecstasy.”

Then said Sakka, “He chooseth no thing connected with food.” And he granted yet another boon.

And the Buddha said, “Let no creature ever be harmed for me in body or in mind.”

And Sakka made the tree bear fruit perennially, and saluting the Buddha by touching his head with joined hands, he said:

“Dwell here for ever free from disease,” and returned to his throne.

THE RICE MEASURE

Long ago, Brahmadatta was king in Benares, in the land of Kāsi. At that time our Bodisat was his valuer. He valued both horses, elephants, or things of that kind; and jewelry, gold, or things of that kind; and having done so, he used to have the proper price for the goods given to the owners thereof.

Now the King was covetous. And in his avarice he thought, “If this valuer estimates in this way, it will not be long before all the wealth in my house will come to an end. I will appoint another valuer.”

And opening his window, and looking out into the palace yard, he saw a stupid miserly peasant crossing the yard. Him he determined to make his valuer; and sending for him, asked if he would undertake the office. The man said he could; and the King, with the object of keeping his treasure safer, established that fool in the post of valuer.

Thenceforward the dullard used to value the horses and elephants, paying no regard to their real value, but deciding just as he chose; and since he had been appointed to the office, as he decided, so the price was.

Now at that time a horse-dealer brought five hundred horses from the northern prairies. The King sent for that fellow, and had the horses valued. And he valued the five hundred horses at a mere measure of rice, and straightway ordered the horse-dealer to be given the measure of rice, and the horses to be lodged in the stable. Then the horse-dealer went to the former valuer, and told him what had happened, and asked him what he should do.

“Give a bribe to that fellow,” said he, “and ask him thus: 'We know now that so many horses of ours are worth a measure of rice, but we want to know from you what a measure of rice is worth. Can you value it for us, standing in your place by the King?’ If he says he can, go with him into the royal presence, and I will be there too.”

The horse-dealer accepted the Bodisat’s advice, went to the valuer, and bribed him, and gave him the hint suggested. And he took the bribe, and said, “All right! I can value your measure of rice for you.”

“Well, then, let us go to the audience-hall,” said he; and taking him with him, went into the King’s presence. And the Bodisat and many other ministers went there also.

The horse-dealer bowed down before the King, and said, “I acknowledge, O King, that a measure of rice is the value of the five hundred horses; but will the King be pleased to ask the valuer what the value of the measure of rice may be?”

The King, not knowing what had happened, asked, “How now, valuer, _what_ are five hundred horses worth?”

“A measure of rice, O King!” said he.

“Very good, then! If five hundred horses are worth only a measure of rice, what is that measure of rice worth?”

“The measure of rice is worth all Benares, both within and without the walls,” replied that foolish fellow.

For the story goes that he first valued the horses at a measure of rice just to please the King; and then, when he had taken the dealer’s bribe, valued that measure of rice at the whole of Benares. Now at that time the circumference of the rampart of Benares was twelve leagues, and the land in its suburbs was three hundred leagues in extent. Yet the foolish fellow estimated that so-great city of Benares, together with all its suburbs, at a measure of rice!

Hearing this the ministers clapped their hands, laughing, and saying, “We used to think the broad earth, and the King’s realm, were alike beyond price; but this great and famous royal city is worth, by his account, just a measure of rice! O the depth of the wisdom of the valuer! How can he have stayed so long in office? Truly he is just suited to our King!” Thus they laughed him to scorn.

Then the Bodisat uttered this stanza:

“What is a measure of rice worth? All Benares and its environs! And what are five hundred horses worth? That same measure of rice!”

Then the king was ashamed, and drove out that fool, and appointed the Bodisat to the office of valuer. And in course of time the Bodisat passed away according to his deeds.

THE POISONOUS TREES

Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born a merchant. When he grew up, and was trading with five hundred wagons, he came one day to where the road led through a great forest. Halting at the outskirts, he mustered the caravan and addressed them thus:—“Poison-trees grow in this forest. Take heed that you taste no unfamiliar leaf, flower, or fruit without first consulting me.” All promised to take every care; and the journey into the forest began. Now just within the forest-border stands a village, and just outside that village grows a What-fruit tree. That What-fruit tree exactly resembles a mango alike in trunk, branch, leaf, flower, and fruit. And not only in outward semblance, but also in taste and smell, the fruit—ripe and unripe—mimics the mango. If eaten, it is a deadly poison, and causes instant death.

Now some greedy fellows, who went on ahead of the caravan, came to this tree and, taking it to be a mango, ate of its fruit. But others said, “Let us ask our leader before we eat”; and they accordingly halted by the tree, fruit in hand, till he came up. Perceiving that it was no mango, he said:—“This 'mango’ is a What-fruit tree; don’t touch its fruit.”

Having stopped them from eating, the Bodhisatta turned his attention to those who had already eaten. First he dosed them with an emetic, and then he gave them the four sweet foods to eat; so that in the end they recovered.

Now on former occasions caravans had halted beneath this same tree, and had died from eating the poisonous fruit which they mistook for mangoes. On the morrow the villagers would come, and seeing them lying there dead, would fling them by the heels into a secret place, departing with all the belongings of the caravan, wagons and all.

And on the day too of our story these villagers failed not to hurry at daybreak to the tree for their expected spoils. “The oxen must be ours,” said some. “And we’ll have the wagons,” said others;—whilst others again claimed the wares as their share. But when they came breathless to the tree, there was the whole caravan alive and well!

“How came you to know this was not a mango tree?” demanded the disappointed villagers. “We didn’t know,” said they of the caravan; “it was our leader who knew.”

So the villagers came to the Bodhisatta and said, “Man of wisdom, what did you do to find out this tree was not a mango?”

“Two things told me,” replied the Bodhisatta, and he repeated this stanza:—

“When near a village grows a tree Not hard to climb, ’tis plain to me, Nor need I further proof to know, —No wholesome fruit thereon can grow!”

And having taught the Truth to the assembled multitude, he finished his journey in safety.

THE WELL-TRAINED ELEPHANT

Once upon a time when King Magadha was ruling in Rajagaha in Magadha, the Bodhisatta was born an elephant. He was white all over and graced with all beauty. And because of his beauty the King made him his state elephant.

One festal day the King adorned the city like a city of the devas and, mounted on the elephant in all its trappings, made a solemn procession round the city attended by a great retinue. And all along the route the people were moved by the sight of that peerless elephant to exclaim, “Oh, what a stately gait! what proportions! what beauty! what grace! such a white elephant is worthy of an universal monarch.” All this praise of his elephant awoke the King’s jealousy and he resolved to have it cast over a precipice and killed. So he summoned the mahout and asked whether he called that a trained elephant.

“Indeed he is well trained, Sire,” said the mahout. “No, he is very badly trained.” “Sire, he is well trained.” “If he is so well trained, can you get him to climb to the summit of Mount Vepulla?” “Yes, Sire.” “Away with you, then,” said the King. And he got down from the elephant, making the mahout mount instead, and went himself to the foot of the mountain, whilst the mahout rode on the elephant’s back up to the top of Mount Vepulla. The King with his courtiers also climbed the mountain, and had the elephant halted at the brink of a precipice. “Now,” said he to the man, “if he is so well trained as you say, make him stand on three legs.”

And the mahout on the elephant’s back just touched the animal with his goad by way of sign and called to him, “Hi! my beauty, stand on three legs.” “Now make him stand on his two fore-legs,” said the King. And the Great Being raised his hind-legs and stood on his fore-legs alone. “Now on the hind-legs,” said the King, and the obedient elephant raised his fore-legs till he stood on his hind-legs alone. “Now on one leg,” said the King, and the elephant stood on one leg.

Seeing that the elephant did not fall over the precipice, the King cried, “Now if you can, make him stand in the air.”

Then thought the mahout to himself, “All India cannot show the match of this elephant for excellence of training. Surely the King must want to make him tumble over the precipice and meet his death.” So he whispered in the elephant’s ear, “My son, the King wants you to fall over and get killed. He is not worthy of you. If you have power to journey through the air, rise up with me upon your back and fly through the air to Benares.”

And the Great Being, endowed as he was with the marvelous powers which flow from Merit, straightway rose up into the air. Then said the mahout, “Sire, this elephant, possessed as he is with the marvelous powers which flow from Merit, is too good for such a worthless fool as you: none but a wise and good King is worthy to be his master. When those who are so worthless as you get an elephant like this, they don’t know his value, and so they lose their elephant, and all the rest of their glory and splendor.” So saying the mahout, seated on the elephant’s neck, recited this stanza:—

“Exalted station breeds a fool great woe; He proves his own and others’ mortal foe.”

“And now, good-by,” said he to the King as he ended this rebuke; and rising in the air, he passed to Benares and halted in mid-air, over the royal courtyard. And there was a great stir in the city and all cried out, “Look at the state-elephant that has come through the air for our King and is hovering over the royal courtyard.” And with all haste the news was conveyed to the King, too, who came out and said, “If your coming is for my behoof, alight on the earth.” And the Bodhisatta descended from the air. Then the mahout got down and bowed before the King, and in answer to the King’s enquiries told the whole story of their leaving Rajagaha. “It was very good of you,” said the King, “to come here”; and in his joy he had the city decorated and the elephant installed in his state-stable. Then he divided his kingdom into three portions, and made over one to the Bodhisatta, one to the mahout, and one he kept himself. And his power grew from the day of the Bodisatta’s coming till all India owned his sovereign sway. As Emperor of India, he was charitable and did other good works till he passed away to fare according to his deserts.

THE WISE PHYSICIAN

Kisāgotamī is the name of a young girl, whose marriage with the only son of a wealthy man was brought about in true fairy-tale fashion. She had one child, but when the beautiful boy could run alone, it died. The young girl in her love for it carried the dead child clasped to her bosom, and went from house to house of her pitying friends asking them to give her medicine for it. But a Buddhist mendicant, thinking, “She does not understand,” said to her: “My good girl, I myself have no such medicine as you ask for, but I think I know of one who has.” “Oh, tell me who that is!” said Kisāgotamī. “The Buddha can give you medicine: go to him,” was the answer.

She went to Gautama, and doing homage to him, said: “Lord and Master, do you know any medicine that will be good for my child?”

“Yes, I know of some,” said the Teacher.

Now it was the custom for patients or their friends to provide the herbs which the doctors required, so she asked what herbs he would want. “I want some mustard-seed,” he said; and when the poor girl eagerly promised to bring some of so common a drug, he added: “You must get it from some house where no son, or husband, or parent, or slave has died.” “Very good,” she said, and went to ask for it, still carrying her dead child with her. The people said: “Here is mustard-seed, take it.” But when she asked, “In my friend’s house has any son died, or a husband, or a parent, or slave?” they answered: “Lady! what is this that thou sayest; the living are few, but the dead are many.” Then she went to other houses, but one said: “I have lost a son”; another, “We have lost our parents”; another, “I have lost my slave.”

At last, not being able to find a single house where no one had died, her mind began to clear, and, summoning up resolution, she left the dead body of her child in a forest, and returning to the Buddha paid him homage. He said to her: “Have you the mustard-seed?” “My Lord,” she replied, “I have not; the people tell me that the living are few, but the dead are many.” Then he talked to her on that essential part of his system—the impermanency of all things, till her doubts were cleared away, and, accepting her lot, she became a disciple and entered the first Path.

The following lines, ascribed to some of her Sisters in the Order and given in the _Psalms_ (translated by Mrs. Rhys Davids), would apply to Kisāgotamī:—

“Lo! from my heart the hidden shaft is gone, The shaft that nestled there hath he removed; And that consuming grief for my dear child, Which poisoned all the life of me, is dead. To-day my heart is healed, my yearning stayed, Perfected the deliverance wrought in me.”

NOTES FOR TEACHERS

The following notes are intended for teachers who may wish to use this collection as a class text book. In all these stories we have the idea of the Indian God in various re-incarnations until he has attained full Buddhahood. Beyond occasionally mentioning the fact of Re-birth in introducing the story (so as to preserve the Oriental flavor) I do not insist on this, nor do I introduce the name of the Buddha into the actual table of contents at the beginning of the book, as it might seem abstruse to the younger readers. But because I wish to appeal to scholars in the higher sense as well as to boys and girls, I have tried in many instances to preserve the language as given in the translation from the Pali. I have also tried to avoid cutting out any important episodes; this sometimes happens in the popular adaptation of these deeply ethical stories. I have tried to keep as far as possible the Eastern point of view, since the book is sponsored by one of the foremost of Oriental Scholars, Dr. Rhys Davids, who has helped me with his advice, and taught me the spirit of the whole conception.

THE HARE THAT RAN AWAY

This is the only story I have completely re-adapted for quite small children, and I have found it among the most popular. I often tell it in connection with Hans C. Andersen’s story of the “Scandal in the Poultry Yard,” of which the subject is practically the same: the first being simple and direct, the second veiled in gentle satire.

THE MONKEY AND THE CROCODILE

I include this story because of the lighter side and because we cannot hide from our boys and girls that craft does enter into the question of success as the world understands it. It is, however, in my mind where the Buddha is not at his highest level. Perhaps the less this story is explained the better.

THE SPIRIT THAT LIVED IN A TREE

This story I consider to be one of the most beautiful in the collection. We cannot baldly appeal to the children to think “of the next generation,” but this wonderful picture must fire their imagination where the ordinary didactic appeal might fail.

THE HARE THAT WAS NOT AFRAID TO DIE

In this story it may be necessary to make a few words of comment on the point of view of the Buddha which might not be quite intelligible to the child. The fact, that though he was ready to sacrifice his own body he had a care for the tiny insects which might perish with him, has much significance in the story scheme. It shows not only the letter of the law but the spirit of the love which prompted him to act, and represents one of the principal tenets of the Buddhist Faith. The whole story is somewhat remote from modern life, but I have found it of great interest to children of different ages, most especially at the time when Fast Days were called for.

THE PARROT THAT FED HIS PARENTS

The dramatic interest of this story appeals to all ages. I have found quite young children enthralled by the adventures of the parrot. I take exception to the lack of poetic justice in the kinsfolk sharing the parrot’s reward—but it was necessary to the Buddha’s happiness, and if children should raise the question, I should explain it on that ground.

THE MAN WHO WORKED TO GIVE ALMS

The method of alms-giving may not appeal to modern feeling, but the spirit in which the gifts were made rises to wonderful heights, and the deeds are sanctified by the self-sacrifice which brings them about. In telling this story to groups of boys and girls accustomed to the warnings of charity organizations, the different conditions in the East might be mentioned.

We have here the same idea as in the story of the King who gave his eyes. This story seems to lead up to the other, in which the sacrifice is so much greater.

THE KING WHO SAW THE TRUTH

This story may seem at first to be above the plane of the young child. I have eliminated all the physical suffering, because it is not necessary to bring out the real meaning of the story. Older children (whether in years or understanding) will be able to appreciate the beauty of the sacrifice and the exceeding greatness of the reward.

THE BULL THAT DEMANDED FAIR TREATMENT