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Transcriber's Note:


  Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been retained as in
    the original.

  A few typographical errors have been corrected. A complete list
    follows the text.

  Words italicized in the original are surrounded by _underscores_.

  Words with bold emphasis in the original are surrounded by =equals
    signs=.




             STORIES FROM TAGORE


               [Illustration]

            THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

      NEW YORK A. BOSTON A. CHICAGO A. DALLAS
           ATLANTA A. SAN FRANCISCO

           MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED

          LONDON A. BOMBAY A. CALCUTTA
                 MELBOURNE

        THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.

                  TORONTO




              Stories from Tagore


                   New York
             The Macmillan Company
                     1918

             _All rights reserved_


            Copyright 1916 and 1918
            BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

  Set up and electrotyped. Published, October, 1918




PREFACE


Every experienced teacher must have noticed the difficulty of
instructing Indian children out of books that are specially intended for
use in English schools. It is not merely that the subjects are
unfamiliar, but almost every phrase has English associations that are
strange to Indian ears. The environment in which they are written is
unknown to the Indian school boy and his mind becomes overburdened with
its details which he fails to understand. He cannot give his whole
attention to the language and thus master it quickly.

The present Indian story-book avoids some at least of these impediments.
The surroundings described in it are those of the students' everyday
life; the sentiments and characters are familiar. The stories are simply
told, and the notes at the end will be sufficient to explain obscure
passages. It should be possible for the Indian student to follow the
pages of the book easily and intelligently. Those students who have read
the stories in the original will have the further advantage of knowing
beforehand the whole trend of the narrative and thus they will be able
to concentrate their thoughts on the English language itself.

It is proposed to publish together in a single volume the original
stories whose English translations are given in this Reader. Versions of
the same stories in the different Indian vernaculars have already
appeared, and others are likely to follow.

Two of the longest stories in this book--"Master Mashai" and "The Son of
Rashmani"--are reproduced in English for the first time. The rest of the
stories have been taken, with slight revision, from two English volumes
entitled "The Hungry Stones" and "Mashi." A short paragraph has been
added from the original Bengali at the end of the story called "The
Postmaster." This was unfortunately omitted in the first English
edition.

The list of words to be studied has been chosen from each story in order
to bring to notice different types of English words. The lists are in no
sense exhaustive. The end in view has been to endeavour to create an
interest in Indian words and their history, which may lead on to further
study.




CONTENTS


                                       PAGE

  THE CABULIWALLAH                       3

  THE HOME-COMING                       21

  ONCE THERE WAS A KING                 35

  THE CHILD'S RETURN                    51

  MASTER MASHAI                         69

  SUBHA                                101

  THE POSTMASTER                       115

  THE CASTAWAY                         129

  THE SON OF RASHMANI                  151

  THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE               203

  NOTES                                223




THE CABULIWALLAH




STORIES FROM TAGORE




I

THE CABULIWALLAH


My five years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I
really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in
silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle,
but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it
long. And so my own talk with her is always lively.

One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth
chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting
her hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow
a krow! He doesn't know anything, does he?"

Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world,
she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do you
think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing
water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!"

And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to
this last saying: "Father! what relation is Mother to you?"

With a grave face I contrived to say: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I
am busy!"

The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself
at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees.
I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Pratap Singh, the
hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was
about to escape with her by the third-story window of the castle, when
all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying: "A
Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the street below was a
Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing
of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he
carried boxes of grapes in his hand.

I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man,
but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will come in, and
my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment
the Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this,
overcome by terror, she fled to her mother's protection and
disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big
man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like
herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway and greeted me with a
smiling face.

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first
impulse was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I
made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman,
the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy.

As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?"

And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her
brought out.

She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He
offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only
clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased.

This was their first meeting.

One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I
was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and
talking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it
appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, save
her father. And already the corner of her little _sari_ was stuffed
with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. "Why did you give her
those?" I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to him.
The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into his
pocket.

Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made
twice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to
Mini; and her mother, catching sight of the bright round object, had
pounced on the child with: "Where did you get that eight-anna bit?"

"The Cabuliwallah gave it me," said Mini cheerfully.

"The Cabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "O Mini!
how could you take it from him?"

I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and
proceeded to make my own inquiries.

It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The
Cabuliwallah had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious
bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.

They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated
in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny
dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter and begin: "O
Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah! what have you got in your bag?"

And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: "