Buttoo

"Ho! Master of the wondrous art!Instruct me in fair archery,And buy for aye,—a grateful heartThat will not grudge to give thy fee."Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes,A hunter's low-born son was he,—To Dronacharjya, great and wise,Who sat with princes round his knee.

Up Time's fair stream far back,—oh far,The great wise teacher must be sought!The Kurus had not yet in warWith the Pandava brethren fought.In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet,Magic and archery they learned,A complex science, which we meetNo more, with ages past inurned.

"And who art thou," the teacher said,"My science brave to learn so fain?Which many kings who wear the threadHave asked to learn of me in vain.""My name is Buttoo," said the youth,"A hunter's son, I know not Fear;"The teacher answered, smiling smooth,"Then know him from this time, my dear."

Unseen the magic arrow came,Amidst the laughter and the scornOf royal youths,—like lightning flameSudden and sharp. They blew the horn,As down upon the ground he fell,Not hurt, but made a jest and game;—He rose,—and waved a proud farewell,But cheek and brow grew red with shame.

And lo,—a single, single tearDropped from his eyelash as he past,"My place I gather is not here;No matter,—what is rank or caste?In us is honour, or disgrace,Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused,"The question is,—not wealth or place,But gifts well used, or gifts abused."

"And I shall do my best to gainThe science that man will not teach,For life is as a shadow vain,Until the utmost goal we reachTo which the soul points. I shall tryTo realize my waking dream,And what if I should chance to die?None miss one bubble from a stream."

So thinking, on and on he went,Till he attained the forest's verge,The garish day was well-nigh spent,Birds had already raised its dirge.Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm!It soothed at once his wounded pride,And on his spirit shed a balmThat all its yearnings purified.

What glorious trees! The sombre saulOn which the eye delights to rest,The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,With feathery branches for a crest,The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,The pale faint-scented bitter neem,The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,

The Indian fig's pavilion tentIn which whole armies might repose,With here and there a little rent,The sunset's beauty to disclose,The bamboo boughs that sway and swing'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring,Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,

The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,The nagessur with pendant flowersLike ear-rings,—and the forest vineThat clinging over all, embowers,The sirish famed in Sanscrit songWhich rural maidens love to wear,The peepul giant-like and strong,The bramble with its matted hair,

All these, and thousands, thousands more,With helmet red, or golden crown,Or green tiara, rose beforeThe youth in evening's shadows brown.He passed into the forest,—thereNew sights of wonder met his view,A waving Pampas green and fairAll glistening with the evening dew.

How vivid was the breast-high grass!Here waved in patches, forest corn,—Here intervened a deep morass,—Here arid spots of verdure shornLay open,—rock or barren sand,—And here again the trees aroseThick clustering,—a glorious bandTheir tops still bright with sunset glows.—

Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs,And seemed to welcome him with signs,Onwards and on,—till Buttoo's browsAre gemmed with pearls, and day declines.Then in a grassy open spaceHe sits and leans against a tree,To let the wind blow on his faceAnd look around him leisurely.

Herds, and still herds, of timid deerWere feeding in the solitude,They knew not man, and felt no fear,And heeded not his neighbourhood,Some young ones with large eyes and sweetGame close, and rubbed their foreheads smoothAgainst his arms, and licked his feet,As if they wished his cares to soothe.

"They touch me," he exclaimed with joy,"They have no pride of caste like men,They shrink not from the hunter-boy,Should not my home be with them then?Here in this forest let me dwell,With these companions innocent,And learn each science and each spellAll by myself in banishment.

A calm, calm life,—and it shall beIts own exceeding great reward!No thoughts to vex in all I see,No jeers to bear or disregard;—All creatures and inanimate thingsShall be my tutors; I shall learnFrom beast, and fish, and bird with wings,And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern.

With this resolve, he soon beganTo build a hut, of reeds and leaves,And when that needful work was doneHe gathered in his store, the sheavesOf forest corn, and all the fruit,Date, plum, guava, he could find,And every pleasant nut and rootBy Providence for man designed,

A statue next of earth he made,An image of the teacher wise,So deft he laid, the light and shades,On figure, forehead, face and eyes,That any one who chanced to viewThat image tall might soothly swear,If he great Dronacharjya knew,The teacher in his flesh was there.

Then at the statue's feet he placedA bow, and arrows tipped with steel,With wild-flower garlands interlaced,And hailed the figure in his zealAs Master, and his head he bowed,A pupil reverent from that hourOf one who late had disallowedThe claim, in pride of place and power.

By straned sense, by constant prayer,By steadfastness of heart and will,By courage to confront and dare,All obstacles he conquered still;A conscience clear,—a ready hand,Joined to a meek humility,Success must everywhere command,How could he fail who had all three!

And now, by tests assured, he knowsHis own God-gifted wondrous might,Nothing to any man he owes,Unaided he has won the fight;Equal to gods themselves,—aboveWishmo and Drona,—for his worthHis name, he feels, shall be with loveReckoned with great names of the earth.

Yet lacks he not, in reverenceTo Dronacharjya, who declinedTo teach him,—nay, with e'en offenceThat well might wound a noble mind,Drove him away;—for in his heartMeek, placable, and ever kind,Resentment had not any part,And Malice never was enshrined.

One evening, on his work intent,Alone he practised Archery,When lo! the bow proved false and sentThe arrow from its mark awry;Again he tried,—and failed again;Why was it? Hark!—A wild dog's bark!An evil omen:—it was plainSome evil on his path hung dark!

Thus many times he tried and failed,And still that lean, persistent dogAt distance, like some spirit wailed,Safe in the cover of a fog.His nerves unstrung, with many a shoutHe strove to frighten it away,It would not go,—but roamed about,Howling, as wolves howl for their prey.

Worried and almost in a rage,One magic shaft at last he sent,A sample of his science sage,To quiet but the noises meant.Unerring to its goal it flew,No death ensued, no blood was dropped,But by the hush the young man knewAt last that howling noise had stopped.

It happened on this very dayThat the Pandava princes cameWith all the Kuru princes gayTo beat the woods and hunt the game.Parted from others in the chase,Arjuna brave the wild dog found,—Stuck still the shaft,—but not a traceOf hurt, though tongue and lip were bound.

"Wonder of wonders! Didst not thou,O Dronacharjya, promise meThy crown in time should deck my browAnd I be first in archery?Lo! here, some other thou hast taughtA magic spell,—to all unknown;Who has in secret from thee boughtThe knowledge, in this arrow shown!"

Indignant thus Arjuna spakeTo his great Master when they met—"My word, my honour, is at stake,Judge not, Arjuna, judge not yet.Come, let us see the dog,"—and straightThey followed up the creature's trace.They found it, in the selfsame state,Dumb, yet unhurt,—near Buttoo's place.

A hut,—a statue,—and a youthIn the dim forest,—what mean these?They gazed in wonder, for in soothThe thing seemed full of mysteries."Now who art thou that dar'st to raiseMine image in the wilderness?Is it for worship and for praise?What is thine object? speak, confess."

"Oh Master, unto thee I cameTo learn thy science. Name or pelfI had not, so was driven with shame,And here I learn all by myself.But still as Master thee revere,For who so great in archery!Lo, all my inspiration here,And all my knowledge is from thee."

"If I am Master, now thou hastFinished thy course, give me my due.Let all the past, be dead and past,Henceforth be ties between us new.""All that I have, O Master mine,All I shall conquer by my skill,Gladly shall I to thee resign,Let me but know thy gracious will."

"Is it a promise?" "Yea, I swearSo long as I have breath and lifeTo give thee all thou wilt." "Beware!Rash promise ever ends in strife.""Thou art my Master,—ask! oh ask!From thee my inspiration came,Thou canst not set too hard a task,Nor aught refuse I, free from blame."

"If it be so,—Arjuna hear!"Arjuna and the youth were dumb,"For thy sake, loud I ask and clear,Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb.I promised in my faithfulnessNo equal ever shall there beTo thee, Arjuna,—and I pressFor this sad recompense—for thee."

Glanced the sharp knife one moment high,The severed thumb was on the sod,There was no tear in Buttoo's eye,He left the matter with his God."For this,"—said Dronacharjya,—"FameShall sound thy praise from sea to sea,And men shall ever link thy nameWith Self-help, Truth, and Modesty."