“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 verandah; 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, string-wise, 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 compound, 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 ground. he had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shrivelled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. outside that circle again, was a rude square, traced out in bits of red brick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. the bhistie from the well-curb put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did not much disfigure my garden.

heaven knows that i had no intention of touching the child's work then or later; but, that evening, a stroll through the garden brought me unawares full on it; so that i trampled, before i knew, marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending. next morning i came upon muhammad din crying softly to himself over the ruin i had wrought. some one had cruelly told him that the sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered his rubbish using bad language the while. muhammad din labored for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was with a tearful apologetic face that he said, “talaam tahib,” when i came home from the office. a hasty inquiry resulted in imam din informing muhammad din that by my singular favor he was permitted to disport himself as he pleased. whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the marigold-polo-ball creation.

for some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, i fancy, from my fowls—always alone and always crooning to himself.

a gayly-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his little buildings; and i looked that muhammad din should build something more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. nor was i disappointed. he meditated for the better part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. then he began tracing in dust. it would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. but the palace was never completed.

next day there was no muhammad din at the head of the carriage-drive, and no “talaam tahib” to welcome my return. i had grown accustomed to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. next day, imam din told me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. he got the medicine, and an english doctor.

“they have no stamina, these brats,” said the doctor, as he left imam din's quarters.

a week later, though i would have given much to have avoided it, i met on the road to the mussulman burying-ground imam din, accompanied by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was left of little muhammad din.