Undismayed by the barking of the village cur, the cow browses on the bank,
followed by a hopping group of _saliks_ hunting moths.
I sit in the tamarind grove, where the cries of dumb life congregate--the
cattle's lowing, the sparrows' chatter, the shrill scream of a kite
overhead, the crickets' chirp, and the splash of a fish in the water.
I peep into the primeval nursery of life, where the mother Earth thrills at
the first living clutch near her breast.
11
At the sleepy village the noon was still like a sunny midnight when my
holidays came to their end.
My little girl of four had followed me all the morning from room to room,
watching my preparations in grave silence, till, wearied, she sat by the
doorpost strangely quiet, murmuring to herself, "Father must not go!"
This was the meal hour, when sleep daily overcame her, but her mother had
forgotten her and the child was too unhappy to complain.
At last, when I stretched out my arms to her to say farewell, she never
moved, but sadly looking at me said, "Father, you must not go!"
And it amused me to tears to think how this little child dared to fight the
giant world of necessity with no other resource than those few words,
"Father, you must not go!"
12
Take your holiday, my boy; there are the blue sky and the bare field, the
barn and the ruined temple under the ancient tamarind.
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