Indian Tales. Rudyard Kipling

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СКАЧАТЬ 'orrid," said he, "an' I shan't sing no more to this 'ere bloomin' drawin'-room."

      Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept behind Ortheris, and slung him aloft on his shoulders.

      "Sing, ye bloomin' hummin' bird!" said he, and Ortheris, beating time on Learoyd's skull, delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the Ratcliffe Highway, of this song: —

      My girl she give me the go onst,

      When I was a London lad,

      An' I went on the drink for a fortnight,

      An' then I went to the bad.

      The Queen she give me a shillin'

      To fight for 'er over the seas;

      But Guv'ment built me a fever-trap,

      An' Injia give me disease.

Chorus

      Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,

      An' don't you go for the beer;

      But I was an ass when I was at grass,

        An' that is why I'm here.

      I fired a shot at a Afghan,

      The beggar 'e fired again,

      An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ed,

      An' missed the next campaign!

      I up with my gun at a Burman

      Who carried a bloomin' dah,

      But the cartridge stuck and the bay'nit bruk,

      An' all I got was the scar.

Chorus

      Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan

      When you stand on the sky-line clear;

      An' don't you go for a Burman

      If none o' your friends is near.

      I served my time for a corp'ral,

      An' wetted my stripes with pop,

      For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,

      An' finished the night in the "shop."

      I served my time for a sergeant;

      The colonel 'e sez "No!

      The most you'll see is a full C.B."2

      An' … very next night 'twas so.

Chorus

      Ho! don't you go for a corp'ral

      Unless your 'ed is clear;

      But I was an ass when I was at grass,

      An' that is why I'm 'ere.

      I've tasted the luck o' the army

      In barrack an' camp an' clink,

      An' I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip

      Along o' the women an' drink.

      I'm down at the heel o' my service

      An' when I am laid on the shelf,

      My very wust friend from beginning to end

      By the blood of a mouse was myself!

Chorus

      Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,

      An' don't you go for the beer:

      But I was an ass when I was at grass,

      An' that is why I'm 'ere,

      "Ay, listen to our little man now, singin' an' shoutin' as tho' trouble had niver touched him. D' you remember when he went mad with the homesickness?" said Mulvaney, recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season when Ortheris waded through the deep waters of affliction and behaved abominably. "But he's talkin' bitter truth, though. Eyah!

      "My very worst frind from beginnin' to ind By the blood av a mouse was mesilf!"

* * * * *

      When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his moustache, leaning on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know not what vultures tearing his liver.

      THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN

      Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying.

– Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.

      The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for me.

      "Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially.

      The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a polo-ball to a khitmatgar?

      "By your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself."

      No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the veranda; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that polo-ball?

      Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room – a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son."

      He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most of his shirt as a handkerchief.

      "This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, "is a budmash– a big budmash. He will, without doubt, go to the jail-khana for his behavior." Renewed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din.

      "Tell the baby," said I, "that the Sahib is not angry, and take him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his father's arms, and said gravely, "It is true that my name is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but I am not a budmash. I am a man!"

      From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the garden, we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined to "Talaam, Tahib" from his side, and "Salaam, Muhammad Din" from mine. Daily on my return from office, the little white shirt, and the fat little body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis where they had been hid; and daily I checked my horse here, that my salutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly.

      Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the grounds. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck СКАЧАТЬ