Jataka Tales (Stories of the Buddha's Former Births)

And thus confirming her in the Five Commandments, he took her back, and then dismissed her. And from that time forth she lived in righteousness. A few days afterwards, Sakka went to see whether she was able to keep good, and he lay on his back before her in the form of a fish. Thinking it was dead, the crane seized it by the head. The fish wagged its tail. “It’s alive, I think!” exclaimed she, and let it go. “Good! Good!” said Sakka, “You are well able to keep the Commandments.” And he went away. When she again changed her form of existence, she was born in a potter’s household in Benares. Sakka, as before, found out where she was, and filled a cart with golden cucumbers, and seated himself in the middle of the village in the form of an old woman, calling out, “Buy my cucumbers! Buy my cucumbers!” The people came up and asked for them. “I sell,” said she, “only to those who live a life of righteousness. Do you live such a life?” “We don’t know anything about righteousness. Hand them over for money!” said they. “I want no money; I will only give to the righteous,” was her reply. “This must be some mad woman!” said they, and left her.

But when Well-born heard what had happened, she thought, “This must be meant for me!” and went and asked for some cucumbers. “Do you live a righteous life, lady?” was the question. “Certainly, I do,” said she. “It’s for your sake that I brought these here,” replied the old woman; and leaving all the golden cucumbers, and the cart too, at the door of the house, she departed. And Well-born still continued in righteousness to the end of that life; and when she changed her existence, she became the daughter of a Titan named ‘The Son of Misunderstanding;’ but in consequence of her virtue she became exceeding beautiful. When she was grown up, her father assembled the Titans together that his daughter might choose for a husband the one she liked best. Sakka was looking about as before to find out where she was; and when he discovered it, he took the form of a Titan, and went to the place, - thinking that when choosing a husband, she might take him.

Then they led Well-born in fine array to the meeting place, and told her to choose whomsoever she liked as her husband. And when she began to look at them, she saw Sakka, and by reason of her love to him in the former birth, she was moved to say, “This one is my husband,” and so chose him. And he led her away to the heavenly city, and gave her the post of honour among great multitudes of houris; and at the end of his allotted time, he passed away according to his deeds. When the Teacher had finished this discourse, he reproved the monk, saying, “Thus, O monk, formerly wise men, though they held rule in heaven, offered up their lives rather than destroy life; but you, though you have taken the vows according to so saving a faith, have drunk unstrained water with living creatures in it!” And he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “He who at that time was Mātali the charioteer was Ānanda, but Sakka was I myself.” END OF THE STORY ON MERCY TO ANIMALS.

NACCA JĀTAKA. The Dancing Peacock. “Pleasant is your cry.” - This the Master told when at Jetavana, about the luxurious monk. The occasion is as above in the Story on True Divinity. The Teacher asked him, “Is this true, O monk, what they say, that you are luxurious?” “It is true, Lord,” said he. “How is it you have become luxurious?” began the Teacher. But without waiting to hear more, he flew into a rage, tore off his robe and his lower garment, and calling out, “Then I’ll go about in this way!” stood there naked before the Teacher! The bystanders exclaimed, “Shame! shame!” and he ran off, and returned to the lower state (of a layman). When the monks were assembled in the Lecture Hall, they began talking of his misconduct. “To think that one should behave so in the very presence of the Master!” The Teacher then came up, and asked them what they were talking about, as they sat there together. “Lord! we were talking of the misconduct of that monk, who, in your presence, and in the midst of the disciples, stood there as naked as a village child, without caring one bit; and when the bystanders cried shame upon him, returned to the lower state, and lost the faith!”

Then said the Teacher, “Not only, O monks, has this brother now lost the jewel of the faith by immodesty; in a former birth he lost a jewel of a wife from the same cause.” And he told a tale. Long ago, in the first age of the world, the quadrupeds chose the Lion as their king, the fishes the Leviathan, and the birds the Golden Goose. Now the royal Golden Goose had a daughter, a young goose most beautiful to see; and he gave her her choice of a husband. And she chose the one she liked the best. For, having given her the right to choose, he called together all the birds in the Himālaya region. And crowds of geese, and peacocks, and other birds of various kinds, met together on a great flat piece of rock. The king sent for his daughter, saying, “Come and choose the husband you like best!” On looking over the assembly of the birds, she caught sight of the peacock, with a neck as bright as gems, and a many-coloured tail; and she made the choice with the words, “Let this one be my husband!”

So the assembly of the birds went up to the peacock, and said, “Friend Peacock! this king’s daughter having to choose her husband from amongst so many birds, has fixed her choice upon you!” “Up to to-day you would not see my greatness,” said the peacock, so overflowing with delight that in breach of all modesty he began to spread his wings and dance in the midst of the vast assembly, - and in dancing he exposed himself. Then the royal Golden Goose was shocked! And he said, “This fellow has neither modesty in his heart, nor decency in his outward behaviour! I shall not give my daughter to him. He has broken loose from all sense of shame!” And he uttered this verse to all the assembly - “Pleasant is your cry, brilliant is your back, Almost like the opal in its colour is your neck, The feathers in your tail reach about a fathom’s length, But to such a dancer I can give no daughter, sir, of mine!” Then the king in the midst of the whole assembly bestowed his daughter on a young goose, his nephew. And the peacock was covered with shame at not getting the fair gosling, and rose straight up from the place and flew away.

But the king of the Golden Geese went back to the place where he dwelt. When the Teacher had finished this lesson in virtue, in illustration of what he had said (“Not only, O monks, has this brother now lost the jewel of the faith by immodesty, formerly also he lost a jewel of a wife by the same cause”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “The peacock of that time was the luxurious monk, but the King of the Geese was I myself.” END OF THE STORY ABOUT THE DANCING PEACOCK.

SAMMODAMĀNA JĀTAKA. The sad Quarrel of the Quails. “So long as the birds but agree.” - This the Master told while at the Banyan Grove, near Kapilavatthu, concerning a quarrel about a chumbat (a circular roll of cloth placed on the head when carrying a vessel or other weight). This will be explained in the Kuṇāla Jātaka. At that time, namely, the Master admonishing his relations, said, “My lords! for relatives to quarrel one against another is verily most unbecoming! Even animals once, who had conquered their enemies so long as they agreed, came to great destruction when they fell out with one another.” And at the request of his relatives he told the tale. Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat came to life as a quail; and lived in a forest at the head of a flock many thousands in number.

At that time there was a quail-catcher who used to go to the place where they dwelt, and imitate the cry of a quail; and when he saw that they had assembled together, he would throw his net over them, get them all into a heap by crushing them together in the sides of the net, and stuff them into his basket; and then going home, he used to sell them, and make a living out of the proceeds. Now one day the Bodisat said to the quails, “This fowler is bringing our kith and kin to destruction! Now I know a stratagem to prevent his catching us. In future, as soon as he has thrown the net over you, let each one put his head through a mesh of the net, then all lift it up together, so as to carry it off to any place we like, and then let it down on to a thorn bush. When that is done, we shall each be able to escape from his place under the net!”

To this they all agreed; and the next day, as soon as the net was thrown, they lifted it up just in the way the Bodisat had told them, threw it on a thorn bush, and got away themselves from underneath. And whilst the fowler was disentangling his net from the bush, darkness had come on. And he had to go empty-handed away. From the next day the quails always acted in the same manner: and he used to be disentangling his net till sundown, catching nothing, and going home empty-handed. At last his wife said to him in a rage, “Day after day you come here empty-handed! I suppose you’ve got another establishment to keep up somewhere else!” “My dear!” said the fowler, “I have no other establishment to keep up. But I’ll tell you what it is. Those quails are living in harmony together; and as soon as I cast my net, they carry it away, and throw it on a thorn bush. But they can’t be of one mind for ever! Don’t you be troubled about it. As soon as they fall out, I’ll come back with every single one of them, and that’ll bring a smile into your face!” And so saying, he uttered this stanza to his wife:

“So long as the birds but agree, They can get away with the net; But when once they begin to dispute, Then into my clutches they fall!” And when only a few days had gone by, one of the quails, in alighting on the ground where they fed, trod unawares on another one’s head. “Who trod on my head?” asked the other in a passion. “I didn’t mean to tread upon you; don’t be angry,” said the other; but he was angry still. And as they went on vociferating, they got to disputing with one another in such words as these: “Ah! it was you then, I suppose, who did the lifting up of the net!” When they were so quarrelling, the Bodisat thought, “There is no depending for safety upon a quarrelsome man! No longer will these fellows lift up the net; so they will come to great destruction, and the fowler will get his chance again. I dare not stay here any more!” And he went off with his more immediate followers to some other place. And the fowler came a few days after, and imitated the cry of a quail, and cast his net over those who came together. Then the one quail cried out:

“The talk was that the very hairs of your head fell off when you heaved up the net. Lift away, then, now!” The other cried out, “The talk was that the very feathers of your wings fell out when you heaved up the net. Lift away, then, now!” But as they were each calling on the other to lift away, the hunter himself lifted up the net, bundled them all in in a heap together, crammed them into his basket, and went home, and made his wife to smile. When the Master had finished this lesson in virtue, in illustration of what he had said (“Thus, O king, there ought to be no such thing as quarrelling among relatives; for quarrels are the root of misfortune”), he made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, “He who at that time was the foolish quail was Devadatta, but the wise quail was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE SAD QUARREL OF THE QUAILS.

MACCHA JĀTAKA. The Fish and his Wife. “’Tis not the heat, ‘tis not the cold.” - This the Master told when at Jetavana, about being tempted back by one’s former wife. For on that occasion the Master asked the monk, “Is it true, then, that you are love-sick?” “It is true, Lord!” was the reply. “What has made you sad?” “Sweet is the touch of the hand, Lord! of her who was formerly my wife. I cannot forsake her!” Then the Master said, “O Brother! this woman does you harm. In a former birth also you were just being killed through her when I came up and saved you.” And he told a tale. Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the Bodisat became his private chaplain. At that time certain fishermen were casting their nets into the river. Now a big fish came swimming along playing lustily with his wife. She still in front of him smelt the smell of a net, and made a circuit, and escaped it. But the greedy amorous fish went right into the mouth of the net.

When the fishermen felt his coming in they pulled up the net, seized the fish, and threw it alive on the sand, and began to prepare a fire and a spit, intending to cook and eat it. Then the fish lamented, saying to himself; “The heat of the fire would not hurt me, nor the torture of the spit, nor any other pain of that sort; but that my wife should sorrow over me, thinking I must have deserted her for another, that is indeed a dire affliction!” And he uttered this stanza - “’Tis not the heat, ‘tis not the cold, ’Tis not the torture of the net; But that my wife should think of me, ’He’s gone now to another for delight.’” Now just then the chaplain came down, attended by his slaves, to bathe at the ford. And he understood the language of all animals. So on hearing the fish’s lament, he thought to himself: “This fish is lamenting the lament of sin. Should he die in this unhealthy state of mind, he will assuredly be reborn in hell. I will save him.” And he went to the fishermen, and said - “My good men! don’t you furnish a fish for us every day for our curry?”

“What is this you are saying, sir?” answered the fishermen. “Take away any fish you like!” “We want no other: only give us this one.” “Take it, then, sir.” The Bodisat took it up in his hands, seated himself at the river-side, and said to it, “My good fish! Had I not caught sight of you this day, you would have lost your life. Now henceforth sin no more!” And so exhorting it, he threw it into the water, and returned to the city. When the Teacher had finished this discourse, he proclaimed the Truths. At the end of the Truths the depressed monk was established in the fruit of conversion. Then the Teacher made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka: “She who at that time was the female fish was the former wife, the fish was the depressed monk, but the chaplain was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE FISH AND HIS WIFE.

VAṬṬAKA JĀTAKA. The Holy Quail. “Wings I have that will not fly.” - This the Master told when journeying through Magadha about the going out of a Jungle Fire. For once, when the Master was journeying through Magadha, he begged his food in a certain village in that land; and after he had returned from his rounds and had finished his meal, he started forth again, attended by the disciples. Just then a great fire arose in the jungle. Many of the monks were in front, many of them behind. And the fire came spreading on towards them, one mass of smoke and flame. Some of the monks being unconverted were terrified with the fear of death; and called out - “Let’s make a counter-fire, so that the conflagration shall not spread beyond the space burnt out by that.” And taking out their fire-sticks they began to get a light.

But the others said, “Brethren, what is this you are doing? ‘Tis like failing to see the moon when it has reached the topmost sky, or the sun as it rises with its thousand rays from the eastern quarter of the world; ‘tis like people standing on the beachy shore and perceiving not the ocean, or standing close to Sineru and seeing not that mighty mountain, for you - when journeying along in company with the greatest Being in earth or heaven - to call out, ‘Let us make a counter fire,’ and to take no notice of the supreme, the Buddha! You know not the power of the Buddhas! Come, let us go to the Master!” And they all crowded together from in front, and from behind, and went up in a body near to the Mighty by Wisdom. There the Master stopped, surrounded by the whole body of disciples. The jungle fire came on roaring as if to overwhelm them. It came right up to the place where the Great Mortal stood, and then - as it came within about sixteen rods of that spot - it went out, like a torch thrust down into water, leaving a space of about thirty-two rods in breadth over which it could not pass! Then the monks began to magnify the Teacher, saying;

“Oh! how marvellous are the qualities of the Buddhas! The very fire, unconscious though it be, cannot pass over the place where the Buddhas stand. Oh! how great is the might of the Buddhas!” On hearing this the Teacher said - “It is not, monks, through any power I have now that the fire goes out on reaching this plot of ground. It is through the power of a former act of mine. And in all this spot no fire will burn through the whole kalpa, for that was a miracle enduring through a kalpa.” Then the venerable Ānanda folded a robe in four, and spread it as a seat for the Teacher. The Teacher seated himself; and when he had settled himself cross-legged, the body of disciples seated themselves reverently round him, and requested him, saying - “What has now occurred, O Lord, is known to us. The past is hidden from us. Make it known to us.” And the Teacher told the tale.

Long ago the Bodisat entered upon a new existence as a quail in this very spot, in the land of Magadha; and after having been born in the egg, and having got out of the shell, he became a young quail, in size like a big partridge. And his parents made him lie still in the nest, and fed him with food they brought in their beaks. And he had no power either to stretch out his wings and fly through the air, nor to put out his legs and walk on the earth. Now that place was consumed year after year by a jungle fire. And just at that time the jungle fire came on with a mighty roar and seized upon it. The flocks of birds rose up, each from his nest, and flew away shrieking. And the Bodisat’s parents too, terrified with the fear of death, forsook the Bodisat, and fled.

When the Bodisat, lying there as he was, stretched forth his neck, and saw the conflagration spreading towards him, he thought: “If I had the power of stretching my wings and flying in the air, or of putting out my legs, and walking on the ground, I could get away to some other place. But I can’t! And my parents too, terrified with the fear of death, have left me all alone, and flown away to save themselves. No other help can I expect from others, and in myself I find no help. What in the world shall I do now!”

But then it occurred to him, “In this world there is such a thing as the efficacy of virtue; there is such a thing as the efficacy of truth. There are men known as omniscient Buddhas, who become Buddhas when seated under the Bo-tree through having fulfilled the Great Virtues in the long ages of the past; who have gained salvation by the wisdom arising from good deeds and earnest thought, and have gained too the power of showing to others the knowledge of that salvation; who are full of truth, and compassion, and mercy, and longsuffering; and whose hearts reach out in equal love to all beings that have life. To me, too, the Truth is one, there seems to be but one eternal and true Faith. It behoves me, therefore - meditating on the Buddhas of the past and on the attributes that they have gained, and relying on the one true faith there is in me - to perform an Act of Truth; and thus to drive back the fire, and procure safety both for myself, and for the other birds.” Therefore it is said (in the Scriptures) - “There’s power in virtue in the world - In truth, and purity, and love! In that truth’s name I’ll now perform A mystic Act of Truth sublime.

Then thinking on the power of the Faith, And on the Conquerors in ages past, Relying on the power of the Truth, I then performed the Miracle!” Then the Bodisat called to mind the attributes of the Buddhas who had long since passed away; and, making a solemn asseveration of the true faith existing in himself, he performed the Act of Truth, uttering the verse - “Wings I have that will not fly, Feet I have that will not walk; My parents, too, are fled away! O All-embracing Fire - go back!” Then before him and his Act of Truth the Element went back a space of sixteen rods; but in receding it did not return to consume the forest; it went out immediately it came to the spot, like a torch plunged into water. Therefore it is said - “For me and for my Act of Truth The great and burning fire went out, Leaving a space of sixteen rods, As fire, with water mixed, goes out.” And as that spot has escaped being overwhelmed by fire through all this kalpa, this is said to be ‘a kalpa-enduring miracle.’ The Bodisat having thus performed the Act of Truth, passed away, at the end of his life, according to his deeds.

When the Teacher had finished this discourse, in illustration of what he had said (“That this wood is not passed over by the fire is not a result, O monks, of my present power; but of the power of the Act of Truth I exercised as a new-born quail”), he proclaimed the Truths. At the conclusion of the Truths some were Converted, some reached the Second Path, some the Third, some the Fourth. And the Teacher made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, “My parents at that time were my present parents, but the King of the Quails was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE HOLY QUAIL.

SAKUṆA JĀTAKA. The Wise Bird and the Fools. “The earth-born tree.” - This the Master told when at Jetavana, about a monk whose hut was burned. A certain monk, says the tradition, received from the Teacher a subject for meditation, and leaving Jetavana, took up his abode in a dwelling in a forest near a border village, belonging to the people of Kosala. Now in the very first month his hut was burned down; and he told the people, saying, “My hut is burnt down, and I live in discomfort.” “Our fields are all dried up now,” said they; “we must first irrigate the lands.” When they were well muddy, “We must sow the seed,” said they. When the seed was sown, “We must put up the fences,” was the excuse. When the fences were up, they declared, “There will be cutting, and reaping, and treading-out to do.” And thus, telling first of one thing to be done and then of another, they let three months slip by. The monk passed the three months in discomfort in the open air, and concluded his meditation, but could not bring the rest of his religious exercise to completion. So when Lent was over he returned to the Teacher, and saluting him, took his seat respectfully on one side.

The Teacher bade him welcome, and then asked him, “Well, brother, have you spent Lent in comfort? Have you brought your meditation to its conclusion?” He told him what had happened, and said, “As I had no suitable lodging, I did not fully complete the meditation.” “Formerly, O monk,” said the Teacher, “even animals were aware what was suitable for them, and what was not. Why did not you know it?” And he told a tale. Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the Bodisat came to life again as a bird, and lived a forest life, attended by a flock of birds, near a lofty tree, with branches forking out on every side. Now one day dust began to fall as the branches of the tree rubbed one against another. Then smoke began to rise. The Bodisat thought, on seeing this, - “If these two branches go on rubbing like that they will send out sparks of fire, and the fire will fall down and seize on the withered leaves; and the tree itself will soon after be consumed. We can’t stop here; we ought to get away at once to some other place.” And he addressed the flock in this verse:

“The earth-born tree, on which We children of the air depend, It, even it, is now emitting fire. Seek then the skies, ye birds! Behold! our very home and refuge Itself has brought forth danger!” Then such of the birds as were wise, and hearkened to the voice of the Bodisat, flew up at once with him into the air, and went elsewhere. But such as were foolish said one to another, “Just so! Just so! He’s always seeing crocodiles in a drop of water!” And paying no attention to what he said, they stopped there. And not long afterwards fire was produced precisely in the way the Bodisat had foreseen, and the tree caught fire. And smoke and flames rising aloft, the birds were blinded by the smoke; they could not get away, and one after another they fell into the fire, and were burnt to death!

When the Teacher had finished this discourse with the words, “Thus formerly, O monk, even the birds dwelling on the tree-tops knew which place would suit them and which would not. How is it that you knew it not?” he proclaimed the Truths. At the conclusion of the Truths the monk was established in Conversion. And the Teacher made the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, “The birds who at that time listened to the voice of the Bodisat were the followers of the Buddha, but the Wise Bird was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE WISE BIRD AND THE FOOLS.

TITTIRA JĀTAKA. The Partridge, Monkey, and Elephant. “’Tis those who reverence the aged.” - This the Master told on the road to Sāvatthi about Sāriputta being kept out of a night’s lodging. For when Anātha Piṇḍika had finished his monastery, and sent word to the Teacher, the latter left Rājagaha and arrived at Vesali; and after resting there a short time, he set out again on the road to Sāvatthi. On that occasion the pupils of the Six went on in front, and before lodgings had been taken for the Elders, occupied all the places to be had, saying, - “This is for our superior, this for our instructor, and these for us.” The Elders who came up afterwards found no place to sleep in. Even Sāriputta’s pupils sought in vain for a lodging-place for the Elder. So the Elder having no lodging passed the night either walking up and down, or sitting at the foot of a tree, not far from the place where the Teacher was lodged. In the early morning the Teacher came out and coughed. The Elder coughed too. “Who’s there?” said the Teacher. “’Tis I, Lord; Sāriputta,” was the reply. “What are you doing here, so early, Sāriputta?” asked he. Then he told him what had happened; and on hearing what the Elder said, the Teacher thought, -

“If the monks even now, while I am yet living, show so little respect and courtesy to one another, what will they do when I am dead?” And he was filled with anxiety for the welfare of the Truth. As soon as it was light he called all the priests together, and asked them - “Is it true, priests, as I have been told, that the Six went on in front, and occupied all the lodging-places to the exclusion of the Elders?” “It is true, O Blessed One!” said they. Then he reproved the Six, and addressing the monks, taught them a lesson, saying, - “Who is it, then, O monks, who deserves the best seat, and the best water, and the best rice?” Some said, “A nobleman who has become a monk.” Some said, “A Brāhman, or the head of a family who has become a monk.” Others said, “The man versed in the Rules of the Order; an Expounder of the Law; one who has attained to the First Jhāna, or the Second, or the Third, or the Fourth.” Others again said, “The Converted man; or one in the Second or the Third Stage of the Path to Nirvāna; or an Arahat; or one who knows the Three Truths; or one who has the Sixfold Wisdom.”

When the monks had thus declared whom they each thought worthy of the best seat, and so on, the Teacher said: “In my religion, O monks, it is not the being ordained from a noble, or a priestly, or a wealthy family; it is not being versed in the Rules of the Order, or in the general or the metaphysical books of the Scriptures; it is not the attainment of the Jhānas, or progress in the Path of Nirvāna, that is the standard by which the right to the best seat, and so on, is to be judged. But in my religion, O monks, reverence, and service, and respect, and civility, are to be paid according to age; and for the aged the best seat, and the best water, and the best rice are to be reserved. This is the right standard; and therefore the senior monk is entitled to these things. And now, monks, Sāriputta is my chief disciple; he is a second founder of the Kingdom of Righteousness, and deserves to receive a lodging immediately after myself. He has had to pass the night without a lodging at the foot of a tree. If you have even now so little respect and courtesy, what will you not do as time goes on?”

And for their further instruction he said: “Formerly, O monks, even animals used to say, ‘It would not be proper for us to be disrespectful and wanting in courtesy to one another, and not to live on proper terms with one another. We should find out who is eldest, and pay him honour.’ So they carefully investigated the matter, and having discovered the senior among them, they paid him honour; and so when they passed away, they entered the abode of the gods.” And he told a tale. Long ago there were three friends living near a great Banyan-tree, on the slope of the Himālaya range of mountains - a Partridge, a Monkey, and an Elephant. And they were wanting in respect and courtesy for one another, and did not live together on befitting terms. But it occurred to them, “It is not right for us to live in this manner. What if we were to cultivate respect towards whichever of us is the eldest?” “But which is the eldest?” was then the question; until one day they thought, “This will be a good way for finding it out;” and the Monkey and the Partridge asked the Elephant, as they were all sitting together at the foot of the Banyan-tree -

“Elephant dear! How big was this Banyan Tree at the time you first knew it?” “Friends!” said he, “When I was little I used to walk over this Banyan, then a mere bush, keeping it between my thighs; and when I stood with it between my legs, its highest branches touched my navel. So I have known it since it was a shrub.” Then they both asked the Monkey in the same way. And he said, “Friends! when I was quite a little monkey I used to sit on the ground and eat the topmost shoots of this Banyan, then quite young, by merely stretching out my neck. So that I have known it from its earliest infancy.” Then again the two others asked the Partridge as before. And he said - “Friends! There was formerly a lofty Banyan-tree in such and such a place, whose fruit I ate and voided the seeds here. From that this tree grew up: so that I have known it even from before the time when it was born, and am older than either of you!” Thereupon the Elephant and the Monkey said to the clever Partridge -

“You, friend, are the oldest of us all. Henceforth we will do all manner of service for you, and pay you reverence, and make salutations before you, and treat you with every respect and courtesy, and abide by your counsels. Do you in future give us whatever counsel and instruction we require.” Thenceforth the Partridge gave them counsel, and kept them up to their duty, and himself observed his own. So they three kept the Five Commandments; and since they were courteous and respectful to one another, and lived on befitting terms one with another, they became destined for heaven when their lives should end. “The holy life of these three became known as ‘The Holiness of the Partridge.’ For they, O monks, lived in courtesy and respect towards one another. How then can you, who have taken the vows in so well-taught a religion, live without courtesy and respect towards one another? Henceforth, O monks, I enjoin upon you reverence, and service, and respect, according to age; the giving of the best seats, the best water, and the best food according to age; and that the senior shall never be kept out of a night’s lodging by a junior. Whoever so keeps out his senior shall be guilty of an offence.”

It was when the Teacher had thus concluded his discourse that he, as Buddha, uttered the verse - “’Tis those who reverence the old That are the men versed in the Faith. Worthy of praise while in this life, And happy in the life to come.” When the Teacher had thus spoken on the virtue of paying reverence to the old, he established the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “The elephant of that time was Moggallāna, the monkey Sāriputta, but the partridge was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE PARTRIDGE, THE MONKEY, AND THE ELEPHANT.

BAKA JĀTAKA. The Cruel Crane Outwitted. “The villain though exceeding clever.” - This the Master told when at Jetavana about a monk who was a tailor. There was a monk, says the tradition, living at Jetavana, who was exceeding skilful at all kinds of things that can be done to a robe, whether cutting out, or piecing together, or valuing, or sewing it. Through this cleverness of his he was always engaged in making robes, until he became known as ‘The robe-maker.’ Now what used he to do but exercise his handicraft on some old pieces of cloth, so as to make out of them a robe soft and pleasant to the touch; and when he had dyed it, he would steep it in mealy water, and rub it with a chankshell so as to make it bright and attractive, and then lay it carefully by. And monks who did not understand robe work, would come to him with new cloths, and say - “We don’t understand how to make robes. Be so kind as to make this into a robe for us.” Then he would say, “It takes a long time, Brother, before a robe can be made. But I have a robe ready made. You had better leave these cloths here and take that away with you.”

And he would take it out and show it to them. And they, seeing of how fine a colour it was, and not noticing any difference, would give their new cloths to the tailor-monk, and take the robe away with them, thinking it would last. But when it grew a little dirty, and they washed it in warm water, it would appear as it really was, and the worn-out places would show themselves here and there upon it. Then, too late, they would repent. And that monk became notorious, as one who passed off old rags upon anybody who came to him. Now there was another robe-maker in a country village who used to cheat everybody just like the man at Jetavana. And some monks who knew him very well told him about the other, and said to him - “Sir! there is a monk at Jetavana who, they say, cheats all the world in such and such a manner.” “Ah!” thought he, “’twould be a capital thing if I could outwit that city fellow!” And he made a fine robe out of old clothes, dyed it a beautiful red, put it on, and went to Jetavana. As soon as the other saw it, he began to covet it, and asked him - “Is this robe one of your own making, sir?”

“Certainly, Brother,” was the reply. “Sir! let me have the robe. You can take another for it,” said he. “But, Brother, we village monks are but badly provided. If I give you this, what shall I have to put on?” “I have some new cloths, sir, by me. Do you take those and make a robe for yourself.” “Well, Brother! this is my own handiwork; but if you talk like that, what can I do? You may have it,” said the other; and giving him the robe made of old rags, he took away the new cloths in triumph. And the man of Jetavana put on the robe; but when a few days after he discovered, on washing it, that it was made of rags, he was covered with confusion. And it became noised abroad in the order, “That Jetavana robe-maker has been outwitted, they say, by a man from the country!” And one day the monks sat talking about this in the Lecture Hall, when the Teacher came up and asked them what they were talking about, and they told him the whole matter.

Then the Teacher said, “Not now only has the Jetavana robe-maker taken other people in in this way, in a former birth he did the same. And not now only has he been outwitted by the countryman, in a former birth he was outwitted too.” And he told a tale. Long ago the Bodisat was born to a forest life as the Genius of a tree standing near a certain lotus pond. Now at that time the water used to run short at the dry season in a certain pond, not over large, in which there were a good many fish. And a crane thought, on seeing the fish - “I must outwit these fish somehow or other and make a prey of them.” And he went and sat down at the edge of the water, thinking how he should do it. When the fish saw him, they asked him, “What are you sitting there for, lost in thought?” “I am sitting thinking about you,” said he. “Oh, sir! what are you thinking about us?” said they. “Why,” he replied; “there is very little water in this pond, and but little for you to eat; and the heat is so great! So I was thinking, ‘What in the world will these fish do now?’”

“Yes, indeed, sir! what are we to do?” said they. “If you will only do as I bid you, I will take you in my beak to a fine large pond, covered with all the kinds of lotuses, and put you into it,” answered the crane. “That a crane should take thought for the fishes is a thing unheard of, Sir, since the world began. It’s eating us, one after the other, that you’re aiming at!” “Not I! So long as you trust me, I won’t eat you. But if you don’t believe me that there is such a pond, send one of you with me to go and see it.” Then they trusted him, and handed over to him one of their number - a big fellow, blind of one eye, whom they thought sharp enough in any emergency, afloat or ashore. Him the crane took with him, let him go in the pond, showed him the whole of it, brought him back, and let him go again close to the other fish. And he told them all the glories of the pond. And when they heard what he said, they exclaimed, “All right, Sir! You may take us with you.”

Then the crane took the old purblind fish first to the bank of the other pond, and alighted in a Varaṇa-tree growing on the bank there. But he threw it into a fork of the tree, struck it with his beak, and killed it; and then ate its flesh, and threw its bones away at the foot of the tree. Then he went back and called out - “I’ve thrown that fish in; let another come!” And in that manner he took all the fish, one by one, and ate them, till he came back and found no more! But there was still a crab left behind there; and the crane thought he would eat him too, and called out - “I say, good crab, I’ve taken all the fish away, and put them into a fine large pond. Come along. I’ll take you too!” “But how will you take hold of me to carry me along?” “I’ll bite hold of you with my beak.” “You’ll let me fall if you carry me like that. I won’t go with you!” “Don’t be afraid! I’ll hold you quite tight all the way.”

Then said the crab to himself, “If this fellow once got hold of fish, he would never let them go in a pond! Now if he should really put me into the pond, it would be capital; but if he doesn’t - then I’ll cut his throat, and kill him!” So he said to him - “Look here, friend, you won’t be able to hold me tight enough; but we crabs have a famous grip. If you let me catch hold of you round the neck with my claws, I shall be glad to go with you.” And the other did not see that he was trying to outwit him, and agreed. So the crab caught hold of his neck with his claws as securely as with a pair of blacksmith’s pincers, and called out, “Off with you, now!” And the crane took him and showed him the pond, and then turned off towards the Varaṇa-tree. “Uncle!” cried the crab, “the pond lies that way, but you are taking me this way!”

“Oh, that’s it, is it!” answered the crane. “Your dear little uncle, your very sweet nephew, you call me! You mean me to understand, I suppose, that I am your slave, who has to lift you up and carry you about with him! Now cast your eye upon the heap of fish-bones lying at the root of yonder Varaṇa-tree. Just as I have eaten those fish, every one of them, just so I will devour you as well!” “Ah! those fishes got eaten through their own stupidity,” answered the crab; “but I’m not going to let you eat me. On the contrary, it is you that I am going to destroy. For you in your folly have not seen that I was outwitting you. If we die, we die both together; for I will cut off this head of yours, and cast it to the ground!” And so saying, he gave the crane’s neck a grip with his claws, as with a vice. Then gasping, and with tears trickling from his eyes, and trembling with the fear of death, the crane beseeched him, saying, “O my Lord! Indeed I did not intend to eat you. Grant me my life!” “Well, well! step down into the pond, and put me in there.”

And he turned round and stepped down into the pond, and placed the crab on the mud at its edge. But the crab cut through its neck as clean as one would cut a lotus-stalk with a hunting-knife, and then only entered the water! “When the Genius who lived in the Varaṇa-tree saw this strange affair, he made the wood resound with his plaudits, uttering in a pleasant voice the verse - “The villain, though exceeding clever, Shall prosper not by his villany. He may win indeed, sharp-witted in deceit, But only as the Crane here from the Crab!” When the Teacher had finished this discourse, showing that “Not now only, O mendicants, has this man been outwitted by the country robe-maker, long ago he was outwitted in the same way,” he established the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “At that time he was the Jetavana robe-maker, the crab was the country robe-maker, but the Genius of the Tree was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED.

NANDA JĀTAKA. Nanda on the Buried Gold. “The golden heap, methinks.” - This the Master told while at Jetavana, about a monk living under Sāriputta. He, they say, was meek, and mild of speech, and served the Elder with great devotion. Now on one occasion the Elder had taken leave of the Master, started on a tour, and gone to the mountain country in the south of Magadha. When they had arrived there, the monk became proud, followed no longer the word of the Elder; and when he was asked to do a thing, would even become angry with the Elder. The Elder could not understand what it all meant. When his tour was over, he returned again to Jetavana; and from the moment he arrived at the monastery, the monk became as before. This the Elder told the Master, saying - “Lord! there is a mendicant in my division of the Order, who in one place is like a slave bought for a hundred, and in another becomes proud, and refuses with anger to do what he is asked.” Then the Teacher said, “Not only now, Sāriputta, has the monk behaved like that; in a former birth also, when in one place he was like a slave bought for a hundred, and in another was angrily independent.”

And at the Elder’s request he told the story. Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the Bodisat came to life again as a landowner. He had a friend, also a landowner, who was old himself, but whose wife was young. She had a son by him; and he said to himself - “As this woman is young, she will, after my death, be taking some husband to herself, and squandering the money I have saved. What, now, if I were to make away with the money under the earth?” And he took a slave in the house named Nanda, went into the forest, buried the treasure in a certain spot of which he informed the slave, and instructed him, saying, “My good Nanda! when I am gone, do you let my son know where the treasure is; and be careful the wood is not sold!” Very soon after he died; and in due course his son became of age. And his mother said to him “My dear! your father took Nanda the slave with him, and buried his money. You should have it brought back, and put the family estates into order.” And one day he accordingly said to Nanda, “Uncle! is there any money which my father buried?” “Yes, Sir!” said he. “Where is it buried?”

“In the forest, Sir.” “Then come along there.” And taking a spade and a bag, he went to the place whereabouts the treasure was, and said, “Now, uncle, where is the money?” But when Nanda had got up on to the spot above the treasure, he became so proud of it, that he abused his young master roundly, saying, “You servant! You son of a slave-girl! Where, then, did you get treasure from here?” The young master made as though he had not heard the abuse; and simply saying, “Come along, then,” took him back again. But two or three days after he went to the spot again; when Nanda, however, abused him as before. The young man gave him no harsh word in reply, but turned back, saying to himself, - “This slave goes to the place fully intending to point out the treasure; but as soon as he gets there, he begins to be insolent. I don’t understand the reason of this. But there’s that squire, my father’s friend. I’ll ask him about it, and find out what it is.” So he went to the Bodisat, told him the whole matter, and asked him the reason of it.

Then said the Bodisat, “On the very spot, my young friend, where Nanda stands when he is insolent, there must your father’s treasure be. So as soon as Nanda begins to abuse you, you should answer, ‘Come now, slave, who is it you’re talking to?’ drag him down, take the spade, dig into that spot, take out the treasure, and then make the slave lift it up and carry it home!” And so saying he uttered this verse - “The golden heap, methinks, the jewelled gold, Is just where Nanda, the base-born, the slave, Thunders out swelling words of vanity!” Then the young squire took leave of the Bodisat, went home, took Nanda with him to the place where the treasure was, acted exactly as he had been told, brought back the treasure, put the family estates into order; and following the exhortations of the Bodisat, gave gifts, and did other good works, and at the end of his life passed away according to his deeds. * * * * * When the Teacher had finished this discourse, showing how formerly also he had behaved the same, he established the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, “At that time Nanda was the monk under Sāriputta, but the wise squire was I myself.”

KHADIRANGĀRA JĀTAKA. The Fiery Furnace. “Far rather will I fall into this hell.” - This the Master told while at Jetavana, about Anātha Piṇḍika. For Anātha Piṇḍika having squandered fifty-four thousands of thousands in money on the Buddhist Faith about the Monastery, and holding nothing elsewhere in the light of a treasure, save only the Three Treasures (the Buddha, the Truth, and the Order), used to go day after day to take part in the Three Great Services, once in the morning, once after breakfast, and once in the evening.

There are intermediate services too. And he never went empty-handed, lest the lads, and the younger brethren, should look to see what he might have brought. When he went in the morning he would take porridge; after breakfast ghee, butter, honey, molasses, and so on; in the evening perfumes, garlands, and robes. Thus offering day after day, the sum of his gifts was beyond all measure. Traders, too, left writings with him, and took money on loan from him up to eighteen thousands of thousands, and the great merchant asked it not again of them. Other eighteen thousands of thousands, the property of his family, was put away and buried in the river bank; and when the bank was broken in by a storm they were washed away to the sea, and the brazen pots rolled just as they were - closed and sealed - to the bottom of the ocean. In his house again a constant supply of rice was ordered to be kept in readiness for five hundred members of the Order, so that the Merchant’s house was to the Order like a public pool dug where four high roads meet; and he stood to them in the place of father and mother. On that account even the Supreme Buddha himself used to go to his residence; and the Eighty Chief Elders also; and the number of other monks coming and going was beyond measure.

Now his mansion was seven stories high, and there were seven great gates to it, with battlemented turrets over them; and in the fourth turret there dwelt a fairy who was a heretic. When the Supreme Buddha entered the house, she was unable to stop up above in the turret, but used to bring her children downstairs and stand on the ground floor; and so she did when the Eighty Chief Elders, or the other monks were coming in or going out. And she thought, “So long as this mendicant Gotama and his disciples come to the house, there is no peace for me. I can’t be eternally going downstairs again and again, to stand on the ground floor; I must manage so that they come no more to the house.” So one day, as soon as the chief business manager had retired to rest, she went to him, and stood before him in visible shape. “Who’s there?” said he. “It’s I; the Fairy who dwells in the turret over the fourth gate.” “What are you come for?”

“You are not looking after the Merchant’s affairs. Paying no thought to his last days, he takes out all his money, and makes the mendicant Gotama full of it. He undertakes no business, and sets no work on foot. Do you speak to the Merchant so that he may attend to his business; and make arrangements so that that mendicant Gotama and his disciples shall no longer come to the place.” But the other said to her, “O foolish Fairy! the Merchant in spending his money spends it on the religion of the Buddhas, which leadeth to salvation. Though I should be seized by the hair, and sold for a slave, I will say no such thing. Begone with you!” Another day the Fairy went to the Merchant’s eldest son, and persuaded him in the same manner. But he refused her as before. And to the Merchant himself she did not dare to speak.

Now by constantly giving gifts, and doing no business, the Merchant’s income grew less and less, and his wealth went to ruin. And as he sank more and more into poverty, his property, and his dress, and his furniture, and his food were no longer as they had been. He nevertheless still used to give gifts to the Order; but he was no longer able to give of the best. One day when he had taken his seat, after saluting the Teacher, he said to him, “Well, householder! are gifts still given at your house?” “They are still being given, Lord,” said he, “but only a mere trifle of stale second day’s porridge.” Then said the Master to him, “Don’t let your heart be troubled, householder, that you give only what is unpleasant to the taste. For if the heart be only right, a gift given to Buddhas, or Pacceka Buddhas, or their disciples, can never be otherwise than right. And why? Through the greatness of the result. For that he who can cleanse his heart can never give unclean gifts is declared in the passage -

If only there be a believing heart, There is no such thing as a trifling gift To the Mortal One, Buddha, or his disciples. There is no such thing as a trifling service To the Buddhas, to the Illustrious Ones; If you only can see the fruit that may follow, E’en a gift of stale gruel, dried up, without salt! And again he said to him, “Householder! although the gift you are giving is but poor, you are giving it to the Eight Noble Beings. Now when I was Velāma, and gave away the Seven Treasures, ransacking the whole continent of India to find them, and kept up a great donation, as if I had turned the five great rivers into one great mass of water, yet I attained not even to taking refuge in the Three Gems, or to keeping the Five Precepts, so unfit were they who received the gifts. Let not your heart be troubled, therefore, because your gifts are trifling.” And so saying, he preached to him the Velāmika Sutta. Now the Fairy, who before had not cared to speak to the Merchant, thinking, “Now that this man has come to poverty, he will listen to what I say,” went at midnight to his chamber, and appeared in visible shape before him.

“Who’s there?” said the Merchant on seeing her. “’Tis I, great Merchant; the Fairy who dwells in the turret over the fourth gate.” “What are you come for?” “Because I wish to give you some advice.” “Speak, then.” “O great Merchant! you take no thought of your last days. You regard not your sons and daughters. You have squandered much wealth on the religion of Gotama the mendicant. By spending your money for so long a time, and by undertaking no fresh business, you have become poor for the sake of the mendicant Gotama. Even so you are not rid of the mendicant Gotama. Up to this very day the mendicants swarm into your house. What you have lost you can never restore again; but henceforth neither go yourself to the mendicant Gotama, nor allow his disciples to enter your house. Turn not back even to behold the mendicant Gotama, but attend to your own business, and to your own merchandize, and so reestablish the family estates.” Then said he to her, “Is this the advice you have to offer me?” “Yes; this is it.”

“He whose power is Wisdom has made me immovable by a hundred, or thousand, or even a hundred thousand supernatural beings such as you. For my faith is firm and established like the great mountain Sineru. I have spent my wealth on the Treasure of the Religion that leads to Salvation. What you say is wrong; it is a blow that is given to the Religion of the Buddhas by so wicked a hag as you are, devoid of affection. It is impossible for me to live in the same house with you. Depart quickly from my house, and begone elsewhere!” When she heard the words of the converted, saintly disciple, she dared not stay; and going to the place where she dwelt, she took her children by the hand, and went away. But though she went, she determined, if she could get no other place of abode, to obtain the Merchant’s forgiveness, and return and dwell even there. So she went to the guardian god of the city, and saluted him, and stood respectfully before him. “What are you come here for?” said he.

“Sir! I have been speaking thoughtlessly to Anātha Piṇḍika; and he, enraged with me, has driven me out from the place where I dwelt. Take me to him, and persuade him to forgive me, and give me back my dwelling-place.” “What is it you said to him?” “’Henceforth give no support to the Buddha, or to the Order of Mendicants, and forbid the mendicant Gotama the entry into your house.’ This, Sir, is what I said.” “You said wrong. It was a blow aimed at religion. I can’t undertake to go with you to the Merchant!” Getting no help from him, she went to the four Archangels, the guardians of the world. And when she was refused by them in the same manner, she went to Sakka, the King of the Gods, and telling him the whole matter, besought him urgently, saying, “O God! deprived of my dwelling-place, I wander about without a shelter, leading my children by the hand. Let me in your graciousness be given some place where I may dwell!”

And he, too, said to her, “You have done wrong! You have aimed a blow at the religion of the Conqueror. It is impossible for me to speak on your behalf to the Merchant. But I can tell you one means by which the Merchant may pardon you.” “It is well, O God. Tell me what that may be!”

“People have had eighteen thousands of thousands of money from the Merchant on giving him writings. Now take the form of his manager, and without telling anybody, take those writings, surround yourself with so many young ogres, go to their houses with the writings in one hand, and a receipt in the other, and stand in the centre of the house and frighten them with your demon power, and say, ‘This is the record of your debt. Our Merchant said nothing to you in byegone days; but now he is fallen into poverty. Pay back the moneys which you had from him.’ Thus, by displaying your demon power, recover all those thousands of gold, and pour them into the Merchant’s empty treasury. There was other wealth of his buried in the bank of the river Aciravatī, which, when the river-bank was broken, was washed away to the sea. Bring that back by your power, and pour it into his treasury. In such and such a place, too, there is another treasure of the sum of eighteen thousands of thousands, which has no owner. That too bring, and pour it into his empty treasury. When you have undergone this punishment of refilling his empty treasury with these fifty-four thousands of thousands, you may ask the Merchant to forgive you.”

“Very well, my Lord!” said she; and agreed to what he said, and brought back all the money in the way she was told; and at midnight entered the Merchant’s bed-chamber, and stood before him in visible shape. “Who’s there?” said he. “It is I, great Merchant! the blind and foolish Fairy who used to dwell in the turret over your fourth gate. In my great and dense stupidity, and knowing not the merits of the Buddha, I formerly said something to you; and that fault I beg you to pardon. For according to the word of Sakka, the King of the Gods, I have performed the punishment of filling your empty treasury with fifty-four thousands of thousands I have brought - the eighteen thousands of thousands owing to you which I have recovered, the eighteen thousands of thousands lost in the sea, and eighteen thousands of thousands of owner-less money in such and such a place. The money you spent on the monastery at Jetavana is now all restored. I am in misery so long as I am allowed no place to dwell in. Keep not in your mind the thing I did in my ignorance, but pardon me, O great Merchant!”

When he heard what she said, Anātha Piṇḍika thought, “She is a goddess, and she says she has undergone her punishment, and she confesses her sin. The Master shall consider this, and make his goodness known. I will take her before the Supreme Buddha.” And he said to her, “Dear Fairy! if you wish to ask me to pardon you, ask it in the presence of the Buddha!” “Very well. I will do so,” said she. “Take me with you to the Master!” To this he agreed. And when the night was just passing away, he took her, very early in the morning, to the presence of the Master; and told him all that she had done. When the Master heard it, he said “You see, O householder, how the sinful man looks upon sin as pleasant, so long as it bears no fruit; but when its fruit ripens, then he looks upon it as sin. And so the good man looks upon his goodness as sin so long as it bears no fruit; but when its fruit ripens, then he sees its goodness.” And so saying, he uttered the two stanzas in the Scripture Verses:

The sinner thinks the sin is good, So long as it hath ripened not; But when the sin has ripened, then The sinner sees that it was sin! The good think goodness is but sin, So long as it hath ripened not; But when the good has ripened, then The good man sees that it was good! And at the conclusion of the verses the Fairy was established in the Fruit of Conversion. And she fell at the wheel-marked feet of the Teacher, and said, “My Lord! lustful, and infidel, and blind as I was, I spake wicked words in my ignorance of your character. Grant me thy pardon!” Then she obtained pardon both from the Teacher and from the Merchant. On that occasion Anātha Piṇḍika, began to extol his own merit in the Teacher’s presence, saying, “My Lord! though this Fairy forbad me to support the Buddha, she could not stop me; and though she forbad me to give gifts, I gave them still. Shall not this be counted to my merit, O my Lord?”

But the Teacher said, “You, O householder, are a Converted person, and one of the Elect disciples. Your faith is firm, you have the clear insight of those who are walking in the First Path. It is no wonder that you were not turned back at the bidding of this weak Fairy. But that formerly the wise who lived at a time when a Buddha had not appeared, and when knowledge was not matured, should still have given gifts, though Māra, the Lord of the angels of the Realms of Lust, stood in the sky, and told them to give no gifts; and showing them a pit full of live coals eighty cubits deep, called out to them, ‘If you give the gift, you shall be burnt in this hell’ - that was a wonder!” And at the request of Anātha Piṇḍika, he told the tale. Long ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benāres, the Bodisat came to life in the family of the Treasurer of Benāres, and was brought up in much luxury, like a prince. And he arrived in due course at years of discretion; and even when he was but sixteen years old he had gained the mastery over all branches of knowledge.

At the death of his father he was appointed to the office of Treasurer, and had six Gift-halls built, - four at the four gates, and one in the midst of the city, and one at the entrance to his mansion. And he gave Gifts, and kept the Precepts, and observed the Sabbath-days. Now one day when pleasant food of all sweet tastes was being taken in for the Bodisat at breakfast-time, a Pacceka Buddha, who had risen from a seven days’ trance, saw that the time had come for him to seek for food. And thinking he ought to go that day to the door of the Benāres Treasurer’s house, he washed his face with water from the Anotatta lake, and used a toothpick made from the betel-creeper, put on his lower robe as he stood on the table-land of Mount Manosilā, fastened on his girdle, robed himself, took a begging-bowl he created for the purpose, went through the sky, and stood at the door of the house just as the breakfast was being taken in to the Bodisat. As soon as the Bodisat saw him, he rose from his seat, and looked at a servant who was making the preparations. “What shall I do, Sir?” said he. “Bring the gentleman’s bowl,” said his master.

That moment Māra the Wicked One was greatly agitated, and rose up, saying, “It is seven days since this Pacceka Buddha received food. If he gets none to-day, he will perish. I must destroy this fellow, and put a stop to the Treasurer’s gift.” And he went at once and caused a pit of live coals, eighty fathoms deep, to appear in the midst of the house. And it was full of charcoal of Acacia-wood; and appeared burning and flaming, like the great hell of Avīci. And after creating it, he himself remained in the sky. When the man, who was coming to fetch the bowl, saw this, he was exceeding terrified, and stopped still. “What are you stopping for, my good man?” asked the Bodisat. “There is a great pit of live coals burning and blazing in the very middle of the house, Sir!” said he. And as people came up one after another, they were each overcome with fear, and fled hastily away.

Then thought the Bodisat, “Vasavatti Māra must be exerting himself with the hope of putting an obstacle in the way of my almsgiving. But I am not aware that I can be shaken by a hundred or even a thousand Māras. This day I will find out whether my power or Māra’s - whether my might or Māra’s - is the greater.” And he himself took the dish of rice just as it stood there ready, and went out, and stood on the edge of the pit of fire; and looking up to the sky, saw Māra, and said - “Who are you?” “I am Māra,” was the reply. “Is it you who created this pit of fire?” “Certainly, I did it.” “And what for?” “Simply to put a stop to your almsgiving, and destroy the life of that Pacceka Buddha!” “And I’ll allow you to do neither the one nor the other. Let us see this day whether your power or mine is the greater!” And still standing on the edge of the pit of fire, he exclaimed - “My Lord, the Pacceka Buddha! I will not turn back from this pit of coal, though I should fall into it headlong. Take now at my hands the food I have bestowed, even the whole of it.” And so saying, he uttered the stanza:

“Far rather will I fall into this hell Head downwards, and heels upwards, of my own Accord, than do a deed that is unworthy! Receive then, Master, at my hands, this alms!” And as he so said, he held the dish of rice with a firm grasp, and walked right on into the fiery furnace! And that instant there arose a beautiful large lotus-flower, up and up, from the bottom of the depth of the fiery pit, and received the feet of the Bodisat. And from it there came up about a peck of pollen, and fell on the Great Being’s head, and covered his whole body with a sprinkling of golden dust. Then standing in the midst of the lotus-flower, he poured the food into the Pacceka Buddha’s bowl. And he took it, and gave thanks, and threw the bowl aloft; then rose himself into the sky, in the sight of all the people; and treading as it were on the clouds whose various shapes formed a bolt across the heavens, he passed away to the mountain regions of Himālaya. Māra too, sorrowing over his defeat, went away to the place where he dwelt.

But the Bodisat, still standing on the lotus, preached the Law to the people in praise of charity and righteousness; and then returned to his house, surrounded by the multitude. And he gave gifts, and did other good works his life long, and then passed away according to his deeds. The Teacher then concluded this discourse in illustration of his words, “This is no wonder, O householder, that you, having the insight of those who are walking in the First Path, should now have been unmoved by the Fairy; but what was done by the wise in former times, that was the wonder.” And he established the connexion, and summed up the Jātaka, by saying, “There the then Pacceka Buddha died, and on his death no new being was formed to inherit his Karma; but he who gave alms to the Pacceka Buddha, standing on the lotus after defeating the Tempter, was I myself.” END OF THE STORY OF THE FIERY FURNACE. END OF BOOK I. CHAPTER IV.