The Greatest Works of Edwin Arnold (Illustrated Edition) - Edwin Arnold

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thing to be done, O King?"

      "A friend of mine," said Speckle-neck, "lives near in a beautiful forest on the Gundaki. Golden-skin is his name—the King of the Mice—he is the one to cut these bonds."

      Resolving to have recourse to him, they directed their flight to the hole of Golden-skin—a prudent monarch, who dreaded danger so much that he had made himself a palace with a hundred outlets, and lived always in it. Sitting there he heard the descent of the pigeons, and remained silent and alarmed.

      "Friend Golden-skin," cried the King, "have you no welcome for us?"

      "Ah, my friend!" said the Mouse-king, rushing out on recognizing the voice, "is it thou art come, Speckle-neck! how delightful!—But what is this?" exclaimed he, regarding the entangled net.

      "That," said King Speckle-neck, "is the effect of some wrong-doing in a former life—

      'Sickness, anguish, bonds, and woe

       Spring from wrongs wrought long ago,'[5]

      Golden-skin, without replying, ran at once to the net, and began to gnaw the strings that held Speckle-neck.

      "Nay! friend, not so," said the King, "cut me first these meshes from my followers, and afterwards thou shalt sever mine."

      "I am little," answered Golden-skin, "and my teeth are weak—how can I gnaw so much? No! no! I will nibble your strings as long as my teeth last, and afterwards do my best for the others. To preserve dependents by sacrificing oneself is nowhere enjoined by wise moralists; on the contrary—

      'Keep wealth for want, but spend-it for thy wife,

       And wife, and wealth, and all to guard thy life,'

      "Friend," replied King Speckle-neck, "that may be the rule of policy, but I am one that can by no means bear to witness the distress of those who depend on me, for—

      'Death, that must come, comes nobly when we give

       Our wealth, and life, and all, to make men live,'

      And you know the verse,

      'Friend, art thou faithful? guard mine honor so!

       And let the earthy rotting body go,'"

      When King Golden-skin heard this answer his heart was charmed, and his fur bristled up for pure pleasure. "Nobly spoken, friend," said he, "nobly spoken! with such a tenderness for those that look to thee, the Sovereignty of the Three Worlds might be fitly thine." So saying he set himself to cut all their bonds. This done, and the pigeons extricated, the King of the Mice[6] gave them his formal welcome. "But, your Majesty," he said, "this capture in the net was a work of destiny; you must not blame yourself as you did, and suspect a former fault. Is it not written—

      'Floating on his fearless pinions, lost amid the noon-day skies,

       Even thence the Eagle's vision kens the carcase where it lies;

       But the hour that comes to all things comes unto the Lord of Air,

       And he rushes, madly blinded, to his ruin in the snare,'"

      With this correction Golden-skin proceeded to perform the duties of hospitality, and afterwards, embracing and dismissing them, the pigeons left for such destination as they fancied, and the King of the Mice retired again into his hole.

      Now Light o' Leap, the Crow, had been a spectator of the whole transaction, and wondered at it so much that at last he called out, "Ho! Golden-skin, thou very laudable Prince, let me too be a friend of thine, and give me thy friendship."

      "Who art thou?" said Golden-skin, who heard him, but would not come out of his hole.

      "I am the Crow Light o' Leap," replied the other.

      "How can I possibly be on good terms with thee?" answered Golden-skin with a laugh; "have you never read—

      'When Food is friends with Feeder, look for Woe,

       The Jackal ate the Deer, but for the Crow,'

      "No! how was that?"

      "I will tell thee," replied Golden-skin:—

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      "Far away in Behar there is a forest called Champak-Grove,[7] and in it had long lived in much affection a Deer and a Crow. The Deer, roaming unrestrained, happy and fat of carcase, was one day descried by a Jackal. 'Ho! ho!' thought the Jackal on observing him, 'if I could but get this soft meat for a meal! It might be—if I can only win his confidence,' Thus reflecting he approached, and saluted him.

      'Health be to thee, friend Deer!'

      'Who art thou?' said the Deer.

      'I'm Small-wit, the Jackal,' replied the other. 'I live in the wood here, as the dead do, without a friend; but now that I have met with such a friend as thou, I feel as if I were beginning life again with plenty of relations. Consider me your faithful servant.'

      'Very well,' said the Deer; and then, as the glorious King of Day, whose diadem is the light, had withdrawn himself, the two went together to the residence of the Deer. In that same spot, on a branch of Champak, dwelt the Crow Sharp-sense, an old friend of the Deer. Seeing them approach together, the Crow said,

      'Who is this number two, friend Deer?'

      'It is a Jackal,' answered the Deer, 'that desires our acquaintance.'

      'You should not become friendly to a stranger without reason,' said Sharp-sense. 'Don't you know?'

      "To folks by no one known house-room deny:—

       The Vulture housed the Cat, and thence did die."

      'No! how was that?' said both.

      'In this wise,' answered the Crow.

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      "On the banks of the Ganges there is a cliff called Vulture-Crag, and thereupon grew a great fig-tree. It was hollow, and within its shelter lived an old Vulture, named Grey-pate, whose hard fortune it was to have lost both eyes and talons. The birds that roosted in the tree made subscriptions from their own store, out of sheer pity for the poor fellow, and by that means he managed to live. One day, when the old birds were gone, Long-ear, the Cat, came there to get a meal of the nestlings; and they, alarmed at perceiving him, set up a chirruping that roused Grey-pate.

      'Who comes there?' croaked Grey-pate.

      "Now Long-ear, on espying the Vulture, thought himself undone; but as flight was impossible, he resolved to trust his destiny and approach.

      'My lord,' said he, 'I have the honor to salute thee.'

      'Who is it?' said the Vulture.

      'I am a Cat,'

      'Be off, Cat, or I shall slay thee,' said the Vulture.

      'I am ready to die if I deserve death,' answered the Cat; 'but let what I have to say be heard,'

      'Wherefore, then, comest thou?' said the Vulture.

      'I live,' began Long-ear, 'on the Ganges, bathing, and eating no flesh, practising the moon-penance,[8] like a Bramacharya. The birds that resort thither constantly praise your worship to me as one wholly given to the study of morality, and worthy of all trust; and so I came here to learn law from thee, Sir, who art so deep gone in learning and in years. Dost thou, then, so read the law of strangers as to be ready to slay a guest? What say the books about the householder?—

      'Bar

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