The Crescent Moon | Page 9

have been at my book
all the morning.
You say it is only twelve o'clock. Suppose it isn't any later; can't you
ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve o'clock?
I can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of that
rice-field, and the old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for her supper
by the side of the pond.
I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing darker
under the madar tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny
black.
If twelve o'clock can come in the night, why can't the night come when
it is twelve o'clock?

AUTHORSHIP
You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out
what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father write like
that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and
princesses?

Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an
hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and
forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me, "what a
naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise, you say, "Don't you see that father's at his
work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he
does,--a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,--why do you get cross with me, then,
mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem to
mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, "Child, how
troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with
black marks all over on both sides?

THE WICKED POSTMAN
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me, mother
dear?

The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all wet,
and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother to come
home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father to-day?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost everybody in
the town.
Only, father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the postman is
a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
To-morrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid to buy
some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters beautifully
big.
When I finish my writing, do you think I shall be so foolish as father
and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by letter help
you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice letters.

[Illustration: From a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see chero.jpg]
THE HERO
Mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a strange
and dangerous country.
You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a red horse.
It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi lies
wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren.
You are frightened and thinking--"I know not where we have come to."
I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid."
The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs a narrow
broken path.
There are no cattle to be seen in the wide field; they have gone to their
village stalls.
It grows dark and dim on the land and sky, and we cannot tell where we
are going.
Suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper, "What light is that near
the bank?"
Just then there bursts out a fearful yell, and figures come running
towards us.
You sit crouched in your palanquin and repeat the names of the gods in
prayer.
The bearers, shaking in terror, hide themselves in the thorny bush.
I shout to you, "Don't be afraid, mother.