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Title: The cat who went to heaven
Author: Elizabeth Coatsworth
Illustrator: Lynd Ward
Release date: April 8, 2026 [eBook #78393]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Macmillan Company, 1930
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78393
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN ***
THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN
By ELIZABETH COATSWORTH
_Pictures by Lynd Ward_
Copyright, 1930,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
_All rights reserved--no part of this book may be reproduced
in any form without permission in writing from the publisher._
Published August, 1930
Reprinted January, 1931
Reprinted May, 1931
_Lithographed in the United States of America
by the Artcraft Lithograph & Printing Co._
_By_ ELIZABETH COATSWORTH
THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN
TOUTOU IN BONDAGE
THE SUN'S DIARY
THE BOY WITH THE PARROT
THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN
_With other publishers, books of verse_:
FOX FOOTPRINTS
BEYOND ATLAS
COMPASS ROSE
TO
CYRA THOMAS
This new book about an artist, his cook, his painting, and his kitten,
is a most unusual piece of story telling.
Will the kitten, who brought good luck to the house, be admitted into
the painting of the great Buddha?
She listens and watches as the artist recalls the story of each animal,
then paints it. She hears the cook's songs. Does she go to heaven, in
the procession, with the noble horse and elephant, the beautiful deer
and tiger, the strange monkey and snail? Read and learn how things
happened in Japan long ago.
Seldom has an artist caught so exactly an author's intention. The story
says: then he painted the swan. The picture looks as if the artist's
brush had just left the canvas. We think that many people of many ages
will enjoy this story picture book.
_THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN_
Once upon a time, far away in Japan, a poor young artist sat alone in
his little house, waiting for his dinner. His housekeeper had gone to
market, and he sat sighing to think of all the things he wished she
would bring home. He expected her to hurry in at any minute, bowing and
opening her little basket to show him how wisely she had spent their
few pennies. He heard her steps, and jumped up. He was very hungry!
But the housekeeper lingered by the door, and the basket stayed shut.
"Come," he cried, "what is in that basket?"
The housekeeper trembled, and held the basket tight in two hands. "It
has seemed to me, sir," she said, "that we are very lonely here." Her
wrinkled face looked humble and obstinate.
"Lonely!" said the artist. "I should think so! How can we have guests
when we have nothing to offer them? It is so long since I have tasted
rice cakes that I forget what they taste like!" And he sighed again,
for he loved rice cakes, and dumplings, and little cakes filled with
sweet bean jelly. He loved tea served in fine china cups, in company
with some friend, sitting on flat cushions, talking perhaps about a
spray of peach blossoms standing like a little princess in an alcove.
But weeks and weeks had gone by since any one had bought even the
smallest picture. The poor artist was glad enough to have rice and a
coarse fish now and then. If he did not sell another picture soon he
would not even have that.
His eyes went back to the basket. Perhaps the old woman had managed to
pick up a turnip or two, or even a peach too ripe to haggle long over.
"Sir," said the housekeeper, seeing the direction of his look, "it has
often seemed to me that I was kept awake by rats."
At that the artist laughed out loud.
"Rats?" he repeated. "Rats? My dear old woman, no rats come to such a
poor house as this where not the smallest crumb falls to the mats."
Then he looked at the housekeeper and a dreadful suspicion filled his
mind.
"You have brought us home nothing to eat!" he said.
"True, master," said the old woman sorrowfully.
"You have brought us home a cat!" said the artist.
"My master knows everything!" answered the housekeeper, bowing low.
Then the artist jumped to his feet, and strode up and down the room,
and pulled his hair, and it seemed to him that he would die of hunger
and anger.
"A cat? A cat?" he cried. "Have you gone mad? Here we are starving and
you must bring home a goblin, a goblin to share the little we have,
and perhaps to suck our blood at night! Yes! it will be fine to wake
up in the dark and feel teeth at our throats and look into eyes as big
as lanterns! But perhaps you are right! Perhaps we are so miserable it
would be a good thing to have us die at once, and be carried over the
ridgepoles in the jaws of a devil!"
"But master, master, there are many good cats too!" cried the poor old
woman. "Have you forgotten the little boy who drew all the pictures
of cats on the screens of the deserted temple and then went to sleep
in a closet and heard such a racket in the middle of the night? And
in the morning when he awoke again he found the giant rat lying dead,
master--the rat who had come to kill him! Who destroyed the rat, sir,
tell me that? It was his own cats, there they sat on the screen as he
had drawn them, but there was blood on their claws! And he became a
great artist like yourself. Surely, there are many good cats, master."
Then the old woman began to cry. The artist stopped and looked at her
as the tears fell from her bright little black eyes and ran down the
wrinkles in her cheeks. Why should he be angry? He had gone hungry
before.
"Well, well," he said, "sometimes it is good fortune to have even a
devil in the household. It keeps other devils away. Now I suppose this
cat of yours will wish to eat. Perhaps it may arrange for us to have
some food in the house. Who knows? We can hardly be worse off than we
are."
The housekeeper bowed very low in gratitude.
"There is not a kinder heart in the whole town than my master's," she
said, and prepared to carry out the covered basket into the kitchen.
But the artist stopped her. Like all artists he was curious.
"Let us see the creature," he said, pretending he hardly cared whether
he saw it or not.
So the old woman put down the basket and opened the lid. Nothing
happened for a moment. Then a round pretty white head came slowly above
the bamboo, and two big yellow eyes looked about the room, and a little
white paw appeared on the rim. Suddenly, without moving the basket at
all, a little white cat jumped out on the mats, and stood there as a
person might stand who hardly knew if she were welcome. Now that the
cat was out of the basket, the artist saw that she had yellow and black
spots on her sides, a little tail like a rabbit's, and that she did
everything daintily.
"Oh, a three-colored cat," said the artist. "Why didn't you say so from
the beginning? They are very lucky, I understand."
As soon as the little cat heard him speak so kindly, she walked over
to him and bowed down her head as though she were saluting him, while
the old woman clapped her hands for joy. The artist forgot that he was
hungry. He had seen nothing so lovely as their cat for a long time.
"She will have to have a name," he declared, sitting down again on the
old matting while the cat stood sedately before him. "Let me see: she
is like new snow dotted with gold pieces and lacquer; she is like a
white flower on which butterflies of two kinds have alighted; she is
like----"
But here he stopped. For a sound like a teakettle crooning on the fire
was filling his little room.
"How contented!" sighed the artist. "This is better than rice." Then he
said to the housekeeper, "We have been lonely, I see now."
"May I humbly suggest," said the housekeeper, "that we call this cat
Good Fortune?"
Somehow the name reminded the artist of all his troubles.
"Anything will do," he said, getting up and tightening his belt over
his empty stomach, "but do take her to the kitchen now, out of the
way." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the little cat
rose, and walked away, softly and meekly.
* * * * *
_The First Song of the Housekeeper_
I'm poor and I'm old
My hair has gone gray,
My robe is all patches,
My sash is not gay.
The fat God of Luck
Never enters our door,
And few visitors come
To drink tea any more.
Yet I hold my head high
As I walk through the town.
While I serve such a master
My heart's not bowed down!
* * * * *
The next morning the artist found the cat curled up in a ball on his
cushion.
"Ah! the softest place, I see!" said he. Good Fortune immediately rose,
and moving away, began to wash herself with the greatest thoroughness
and dexterity. When the housekeeper came back from market and cooked
the small meal, Good Fortune did not go near the stove, though her eyes
wandered toward it now and then and her thistle-down whiskers quivered
slightly with hunger. She happened to be present when the old woman
brought in a low table and set it before her master. Next came a bowl
of fish soup--goodness knows how the housekeeper must have wheedled to
get that fish!--but Good Fortune made a point of keeping her eyes in
the other direction.
"One would say," said the artist, pleased by her behavior, "that she
understood it is not polite to stare at people while they eat. She has
been very properly brought up. From whom did you buy her?"
"I bought her from a fisherman in the market," said the old woman. "She
is the eldest daughter of his chief cat. You know a junk never puts out
to sea without a cat to frighten away the water devils."
"Pooh!" said the artist. "A cat doesn't frighten devils. They are kin.
The sea demons spare a ship out of courtesy to the cat, not from fear
of her."
The old woman did not contradict. She knew her place better than that.
Good Fortune continued to sit with her face to the wall.
The artist took another sip or two of soup. Then he said to the
housekeeper, "Please be kind enough to bring a bowl for Good Fortune
when you bring my rice. She must be hungry."
When the bowl came he called her politely. Having been properly
invited, Good Fortune stopped looking at the other side of the room,
and came to sit beside her master. She took care not to eat hurriedly
and soil her white round chin. Although she must have been very hungry,
she would eat only half her rice. It was as though she kept the rest
for the next day, wishing to be no more of a burden than she could help.
So the days went. Each morning the artist knelt quietly on a mat and
painted beautiful little pictures that no one bought: some of warriors
with two swords; some of lovely ladies doing up their long curtains
of hair; some of the demons of the wind blowing out their cheeks; and
some little laughable ones of rabbits running in the moonlight, or fat
badgers beating on their stomachs like drums. While he worked, the old
woman went to market with a few of their remaining pennies; she spent
the rest of her time in cooking, washing, scrubbing, and darning to
keep their threadbare house and their threadbare clothes together. Good
Fortune, having found that she was unable to help either of them, sat
quietly in the sun, ate as little as she could, and often spent hours
with lowered head before the image of the Buddha on its low shelf.
"She is praying to the Enlightened One," said the housekeeper in
admiration.
"She is catching flies," said the artist. "You would believe anything
wonderful of your spotted cat." Perhaps he was a little ashamed to
remember how seldom he prayed now when his heart felt so heavy.
But one day he was forced to admit that Good Fortune was not like
other cats. He was sitting in his especial room watching sparrows fly
in and out of the hydrangea bushes outside, when he saw Good Fortune
leap from a shadow and catch a bird. In a second the brown wings, the
black-capped head, the legs like briers, the frightened eyes, were
between her paws. The artist would have clapped his hands and tried to
scare her away, but before he had time to make the least move, he saw
Good Fortune hesitate and then slowly, slowly, lift first one white paw
and then another from the sparrow. Unhurt, in a loud whir of wings, the
bird flew away.
"What mercy!" cried the artist, and the tears came into his eyes. Well
he knew his cat must be hungry and well he knew what hunger felt like.
"I am ashamed when I think that I called such a cat a goblin," he
thought. "Why, she is more virtuous than a priest."
It was just then, at that very moment, that the old housekeeper
appeared, trying hard to hide her excitement.
"Master!" she said as soon as she could find words. "Master! the head
priest from the temple himself is here in the next room and wishes to
see you. What, oh what, do you think his honor has come here for?"
"The priest from the temple wishes to see me?" repeated the artist,
hardly able to believe his ears, for the priest was a very important
person, not one likely to spend his time in visiting poor artists whom
nobody thought much of. When the housekeeper had nodded her head until
it nearly fell off, the artist felt as excited as she did. But he
forced himself to be calm.
"Run! run!" he exclaimed. "Buy tea and cakes," and he pressed into
the old woman's hands the last thing of value he owned--the vase
which stood in the alcove of his room and always held a branch or
spray of flowers. But even if his room must be bare after this, the
artist did not hesitate: no guest could be turned away without proper
entertainment. He was ashamed to think that he had kept the priest
waiting for even a minute and had not seen him coming and welcomed him
at the door. He hardly felt Good Fortune rub encouragingly against his
ankles as he hurried off.
In the next room the priest sat lost in meditation. The artist bowed
low before him, drawing in his breath politely, and then waited to be
noticed. It seemed to him a century before the priest lifted his head
and the far-off look went out of his eyes. Then the artist bowed again
and said that his house was honored forever by so holy a presence.
The priest wasted no time in coming to the point.
"We desire," said he, "a painting of the death of our lord Buddha for
the temple. There was some discussion as to the artist, so we put
slips of paper, each marked with a name, before the central image in
the great hall, and in the morning all the slips had blown away but
yours. So we knew Buddha's will in the matter. Hearing something of
your circumstances, I have brought a first payment with me so that you
may relieve your mind of worry while at your work. Only a clear pool
has beautiful reflections. If the work is successful as we hope, your
fortune is made, for what the temple approves becomes the fashion in
the town." With that the priest drew a heavy purse from his belt.
The artist never remembered how he thanked the priest, or served him
the ceremonial tea, or bowed him to his narrow gate. Here at last was
a chance for fame and fortune at his hand. He felt that this might be
all a dream. Why had the Buddha chosen him? He had been too sad to
pray often and the housekeeper too busy--could it be that Buddha would
listen to the prayers of a little spotted cat? He was afraid that he
would wake up and find that the whole thing was an apparition and that
the purse was filled with withered leaves. Perhaps he never would have
come to himself if he had not been roused by a very curious noise.
It was a double kind of noise. It was not like any noise exactly that
the artist had ever heard. The artist, who was always curious, went
into the kitchen to see what could be making the sound--and there sure
enough were the housekeeper and Good Fortune, and one was crying for
joy and one was purring for joy, and it would have been hard to have
said which was making more noise. At that the artist had to laugh
out loud, but it was not his old sad sort of laugh, this was like a
boy's--and he took them both into his arms. Then there were three
sounds of joy in the poor old kitchen.
* * * * *
_The Second Song of the Housekeeper_
Now let me laugh and let me cry
With happiness, to know at last
I'll see him famous e'er I die
With all his poverty in the past!
I'll see the sand of the garden walk
Marked with the footsteps of the great,
And noblemen shall stand and talk
At ease about my master's gate!
* * * * *
Early the next morning, before the sun was up, the housekeeper rose
and cleaned the house. She swept and scrubbed until the mats looked
like worn silver and the wood shone like pale gold. Then she hurried
to market and purchased a spray of flowers to put in the vase which
she had of course bought back the night before with the first money
from the priest's purse. In the meantime the artist dressed himself
carefully in his holiday clothes, combed his hair until it shone like
lacquer, and then went to pray before the shelf of the Buddha. There
sat Good Fortune already, looking very earnest, but she moved over the
moment she saw her master. Together they sat before the image, the
artist raising his hands and striking them softly from time to time to
call attention to his prayers. Then with a final low bow he went into
the next room and sat crosslegged on his mat. He had never felt more
excited and happy in his life.
To-day he was to begin his painting of the death of Buddha to be
hung in the village temple and seen perhaps by the children of his
children's children. The honor of it almost overcame him. But he sat
upright and expressionless, looking before him like a samurai knight
receiving the instructions of his master. There was no roll of silk
near him, no cakes of ink with raised patterns of flowers on their
tops, no beautiful brushes, nor jar of fresh spring water. He must
strive to understand the Buddha before he could paint him.
First he thought of the Buddha as Siddhartha, the young Indian prince.
And the artist imagined that his poor small room was a great chamber
and that there were columns of gilded wood holding up a high ceiling
above him. He imagined that he heard water falling from perfumed
fountains near by. He imagined that young warriors stood grouped around
him, gay and witty boys listening with him to a girl playing on a long
instrument shaped like a peacock with a tail of peacock feathers. He
imagined that his poor hydrangeas were a forest of fruit trees and
palms leading down to pools filled with pink and white lotuses, and
that the sparrows he knew so well were white swans flying across the
sky.
When the horse of a passing farmer whinnied, he thought he heard war
horses neighing in their stables and the trumpeting of an elephant,
and that soon he would go out to compete with the other princes for
the hand of his bride, drawing the bow no other man could draw, riding
the horse no other man could ride, striking two trees through with his
sword where the others hewed down but one, and so winning his princess,
Yosadhara, amid the applause of all the world.
Even in that moment of triumph, the artist knew that Siddhartha felt no
shadow of ill will toward his rivals. He was all fire and gentleness.
A smile curved his lips. He held his head high like a stag walking in
a dewy meadow. The artist looked about among his imaginary companions.
All were young, all were beautiful. They had but to ask a boon and
Siddhartha's heart was reaching out to grant it before the words could
be spoken. The swans flew over his gardens and feared no arrow. The
deer stared unafraid from thickets of flowers.
The artist sat in his poor worn clothes, on his thin cushion and felt
silks against his skin. Heavy earrings weighed down his ears. A rope
of pearls and emeralds swung at his throat. When his old housekeeper
brought in his simple midday meal, he imagined that a train of servants
had entered, carrying golden dishes heaped with the rarest food. When
Good Fortune came in, cautiously putting one paw before the other, he
imagined that a dancing girl had come to entertain him, walking in
golden sandals.
"Welcome, thrice welcome!" he cried to her. But apparently Good Fortune
had thought the room was empty, for she nearly jumped out of her skin
when she heard him speak, and ran away with her white button of a tail
in the air.
"How wrong of you to disturb the master!" scolded the housekeeper. But
the artist was not disturbed. He was still Prince Siddhartha and he was
still wondering if all the world could be as happy as those who lived
within the vine-covered walls of the palace the king his father had
given him.
* * * * *
The second day began like the first. The housekeeper rose before dawn
and although there was not a smudge of dirt or a speck of dust anywhere
in the house, she washed and swept and rubbed and polished as before.
Then she hurried to the market early to buy a new spray of flowers. The
artist got up early, too, and made himself as worthy as possible of
reflecting upon the Buddha. And once more when he went to pray, there
was Good Fortune, shining like a narcissus, and gold as a narcissus'
heart, and black as a beetle on a narcissus petal, sitting quietly
before the shelf where sat the household image of the Buddha. No sooner
did she see the artist than she jumped to her feet, lowered her head
as though she were bowing, and moved over to make room for him. They
meditated as before, the artist occasionally striking his hands softly,
and the cat sitting very still and proper with her paws side by side.
Then the artist went into his room beside the hydrangeas. To-day he
reflected upon the renunciation of Siddhartha. Again he was the prince,
but now he ordered his chariot and for the first time drove unannounced
through the city. He saw an old man, and a man sick with fever, and a
dead man. He looked at his bracelets--but gold could do no good to such
as these. He, the prince of the land, was at last helpless to help.
The head of the artist hung heavy on his breast. He thought he smelled
a garland of flowers but the sweetness sickened him. They brought word
that a son had been born to him, but he only thought how sad life would
be for the child. When the housekeeper came with rice, he sent her away
without tasting it, and when Good Fortune wandered in with big watchful
eyes, he told her that he was in no mood for entertainment. Evening
drew closer but still the artist did not stir. The housekeeper looked
in but went away again. Good Fortune mewed anxiously, but the artist
did not hear her.
For now the artist imagined that Prince Siddhartha had secretly sent
for his chariot driver and Kanthaka, his white horse. He had gazed long
at his sleeping wife and the little baby she held in her arms. Now he
was in the darkness of his garden; now he rode quietly through the
sleeping city; now he was galloping down the long roads that shone pale
and light in the darkness; and now he was in the forest and had come to
the end of his father's kingdom. Siddhartha has cut off his long hair.
He has taken off his princely garments. He has hung his sword to white
Kanthaka's saddle. Let Channa take them back to the palace. It is not
with them that he can save the world from its suffering.
* * * * *
So intensely had the artist lived through the pain of the prince in
his hour of giving up all the beautiful world that he knew, that next
morning he was very, very tired. But when he heard the housekeeper
polishing and rubbing and sweeping and scrubbing again, he too rose and
dressed in his poor best and sat beside Good Fortune praying before the
image of the Buddha.
Then he went to the room that overlooked the hydrangea bushes and the
sparrows and again he sat on his mat. Again he imagined that he was
Siddhartha. But now he imagined that for years he had wandered on
foot, begging for his food and seeking wisdom. At last he sat in a
forest under a Bo Tree and the devils came and tempted him with sights
terrible and sights beautiful. Just before dawn it seemed to him that
a great wisdom came to him and he understood why people suffer and
also how they can in other lives escape their sufferings. With this
knowledge he became the Enlightened One, the Buddha.
Now the artist felt a great peace come over him, and a love for all
the world that flowed out even to the smallest grains of sand on the
furthest beaches. As he had felt for his wife and little son in his
imaginings, he now felt for everything that lived and moved, and even
for the trees and mosses, the rocks and stones and the waves, which
some day he believed would in their turn be men and suffer and be happy
as men are.
When the housekeeper and Good Fortune came with his food he thought his
first disciples had come to him, and he taught them of the Way they
should follow. He felt himself growing old in teaching and carrying
happiness through the land. When he was eighty, he knew he was near
death, and he saw the skies open and all the Hindu gods of the heavens,
and of the trees and the mountains came to bid him farewell, and his
disciples, and the animals of the earth.
"But where is the cat?" thought the artist to himself, for even in his
vision he remembered that in none of the paintings he had ever seen of
the death of Buddha, was a cat represented among the other animals.
"Ah, the cat refused homage to Buddha," he remembered, "and so by her
own independent act, only the cat has the doors of Paradise closed in
her face."
Thinking of little Good Fortune, the artist felt a sense of sadness
before he submerged himself again into the great pool of the peace of
Buddha. But, poor man, he was tired to death. He had tried to live a
whole marvelous life in three days in his mind. Yet now at least he
understood that the Buddha he painted must have the look of one who
has been gently brought up and unquestioningly obeyed (that he learned
from the first day): and he must have the look of one who has suffered
greatly and sacrificed himself (that he learned from the second day);
and he must have the look of one who has found peace and given it to
others (that he learned on the last day).
So, knowing at last how the Buddha must look, the artist fell asleep
and slept for twenty-four hours as though he were dead, while the
housekeeper held her breath and the little cat walked on the tips of
her white paws. At the end of twenty-four hours, the artist awoke, and
calling hastily for brushes, ink, spring water, and a great roll of
silk, he drew at one end the figure of the great Buddha reclining upon
a couch, his face full of peace. The artist worked as though he saw the
whole scene before his eyes. It had taken him three days to know how
the Buddha should look, but it took him less than three hours to paint
him to the last fold of his garments, while the housekeeper and Good
Fortune looked on with the greatest respect and admiration.
* * * * *
_The Third Song of the Housekeeper_
Hush, Broom! be silent as a spider at your tasks.
Pot! boil softly, a poor old woman asks.
Birds, sing softly! Winds, go slowly! Noises of the street,
Halt in awe and be ashamed to near my master's feet!
Holy thoughts are in his mind, heavenly desire,
While I boil his chestnuts, on my little fire.
* * * * *
In the following days the artist painted the various gods of the earth
and sky and the disciples who came to say farewell to the Buddha.
Sometimes the painting came easy, sometimes it came hard; sometimes the
artist was pleased with what he had done, sometimes he was disgusted.
He would have grown very thin if the old woman hadn't coaxed him early
and late, now with a little bowl of soup, now with a hot dumpling. Good
Fortune went softly about the house, quivering with excitement. She,
too, had plenty to eat these days. Her coat shone like silk. Her little
whiskers glistened. Whenever the housekeeper's back was turned she
darted in to watch the artist and his mysterious paints and brushes.
"It worries me, sir," said the old housekeeper when she found the cat
tucked behind the artist's sleeve for the twentieth time that day. "She
doesn't seem like a cat. She doesn't try to play with the brushes, that
I could understand. At night all the things come back to me that you
said when I brought her home in the bamboo basket. If she should turn
out bad and hurt your picture, I should not wish to live."
The artist shook his head. A new idea had come to him and he was too
busy to talk.
"Good Fortune will do no harm," he murmured before he forgot about
them all, the old woman, the little cat, and even his own hand that
held the brushes.
"I hope so, indeed," said the housekeeper anxiously. She picked up Good
Fortune, who now wore a flowered bib on a scarlet silk cord about her
neck, and looked like a cat of importance. It was at least half an hour
before Good Fortune was able to get out of the kitchen. She found her
master still lost in contemplation, and sat behind him like a light
spot in his shadow. The artist, having finished gods and men, was about
to draw the animals who had come to bid farewell to the Buddha before
he died. He was considering which animal ought to come first--perhaps
the great white elephant which is the largest of beasts, and a symbol
of the Buddha; perhaps the horse that served him; or the lion, since
his followers sometimes called him the lion of his race. Then the
artist thought of how the Buddha loved humble things and he remembered
a story.
Once the Buddha was sitting in contemplation under a tree screened
by its leaves from the fierce sunshine. As he sat, hour after hour,
the shadow of the tree moved gradually from him and left him with the
sunlight like fire beating down on his shaved head. The Buddha, who was
considering great matters, never noticed, but the snails saw and were
anxious lest harm should come to the master. They crawled from their
cool shadows, and assembled in a damp crown upon his head, and guarded
him with their own bodies until the sun sank and withdrew its rays.
The artist thought: "The snail was the first creature to sacrifice
himself for the Buddha. It is fitting he should be shown first in the
painting."
So, after thinking about the snails he had seen on walks, their
round shell houses, and their little horns, their bodies like some
pale-colored wet leaf, and their shy, well-meaning lives--he dipped a
brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a snail.
Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow to look at it. Her
whiskers bristled and she put up one paw as though to pat it, and then
looked at the artist.
"I am only playing, master," she seemed to say, "but that is a very
snail-like snail."
* * * * *
Next the artist sat on his mat and considered the elephant. He thought
of his great size and strength and of his wisdom. He had never seen
an elephant himself, but he had seen pictures of them painted long
ago by Chinese artists, and now he thought of a large white animal,
very majestic, with small kind eyes, and long ears lined with pink. He
remembered that the elephant was very sacred, having been a symbol of
royalty in India. He thought of how Buddha's mother had dreamed of an
elephant before her baby was born.
Then he thought of stranger things. For before Buddha came to earth
as Prince Siddhartha, he came, his followers believe, in all sorts
of forms, always practicing mercy and teaching those around him. The
artist thought of one tale of how the Buddha had been born as a great
elephant living on a range of mountains overlooking a desert. A lake
starred with lotuses furnished his drink, and trees bent over him with
their branches heavy with fruit. But one day from his high meadows he
saw in the desert a large group of men. They moved slowly. Often one
fell and the others stopped to lift him once more to his feet. A faint
sound of wailing and despair reached his ears. The great elephant was
filled with pity. He went out into the burning sands of the desert to
meet them.
To the travelers he must have seemed one more terrible apparition, but
he spoke to them kindly in a human voice. They told him they were
fugitives driven out by a king to die in the wilderness. Already many
had fallen who would not rise again.
The elephant looked at them. They were weak. Without food and water
they could never cross the mountains to the fertile safe lands that
lay beyond. He could direct them to his lake but they were not strong
enough to gather fruit in quantities. They must have sustaining food
immediately.
"Have courage," he said to them, "in that direction you will find a
lake of the clearest water (alas! his own dear drowsy lake) and a
little beyond there is a cliff at the foot of which you will find the
body of an elephant who has recently fallen. Eat his flesh and you will
have strength to reach the land beyond the mountains."
Then he saluted them and returned across the burning sands. Long before
their feeble march had brought them to the lake and the cliff he had
thrown himself into the abyss and had fallen, shining like a great moon
sinking among clouds, and the spirits of the trees had thrown their
flowers upon his body.
So the artist thought for a long time about the elephant's sagacity and
dignity and kindness. Then he dipped a brush into spring water, touched
it with ink and drew an elephant.
No sooner was the elephant drawn than Good Fortune came out of the
artist's shadow and gazed round-eyed at the great creature standing
upon the white silk. Then she looked at the artist. "I do not know what
this being may be, master," she seemed to say, "but surely I am filled
with awe from my whiskers to my tail."
Then again the artist sat on his mat and thought. This time he thought
about horses. Although he had never ridden, he had often watched
horses and admired their noble bearing, their shining eyes, and curved
necks. He liked the way they carried their tails like banners, and even
in battle stepped carefully so as not to injure any one who had fallen.
He thought of Siddhartha's own horse Kanthaka, white as snow, with a
harness studded with jewels. He thought of how gentle and wild he was,
how he had raced the horses of the other princes and beaten them when
the prince had won the princess Yosadhara. Then he imagined Kanthaka
returning without his master to the palace, his beautiful head hanging
low, and Siddhartha's apparel bound to his saddle.
Then the artist remembered the story of how once the spirit of Buddha
himself had been born in the form of a horse, small, but of such fiery
spirit that he became the war steed of the King of Benares. Seven kings
came to conquer his master and camped about his city. Then the chief
knight of the besieged army was given the king's war horse to ride
and, attacking each camp suddenly, managed to bring back as prisoners,
one by one, six kings. In capturing the sixth king the horse was badly
wounded. So the knight unloosened its mail to arm another horse for the
seventh and last battle.
But the war horse found a voice.
"Our work will be undone," he cried. "Another horse cannot surprise the
camp. Set me, sir, upon my feet, arm me once more. I will finish what I
have begun!"
Weak with loss of blood, he charged the seventh camp like a falcon
striking down its prey, and the seventh king was captured. The King of
Benares came rejoicing to meet them at the royal gate.
"Great king," said the war horse, "pardon your prisoners!" And then,
before the servants could take off his armor, he fell dead in the
moment of victory at his master's feet.
So after long considering the courage and nobility of horses, the
artist dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a
horse.
* * * * *
No sooner was the horse drawn than Good Fortune came out of the
artist's shadow and regarded the picture for a long time. She looked at
the artist with admiration.
"If a fly should light upon your horse, master," she seemed to say,
"surely it would stamp and toss its head."
* * * * *
_The Fourth Song of the Housekeeper_
My master sits.
All day he thinks.
He scarcely sees
The tea he drinks.
He does not know
That I am I.
He does not see
Our cat pass by.
And yet our love
Has its share, too,
In all the things
His two hands do.
The food I cook
In humbleness
Helps him a little
Toward success.
* * * * *
The next day the artist again closed himself alone in the room
overlooking the hydrangea bushes. Sitting on his mat, he decided that
above the white horse's head a swan should be flying. He thought of the
beauty of swans and the great beating of their wings, and of how they
follow their kings on mighty flights along the roads of the air. He
thought of how lightly they float in water like white lotuses.
Then he remembered a story from the boyhood of Prince Siddhartha who
was one day to become the Buddha. He was walking in the pleasure garden
which his father had given him, watching swans fly over his head toward
the Himalayas. Suddenly he heard the hiss of an arrow, and something
swifter and more cruel than any bird drove past him through the air,
and brought a wounded swan down at his feet. The young prince ran to
the great bird and drew out the arrow. He tried the point against his
own arm to find what this pain felt like which the bird had suffered.
Then, as he was binding up the wound, attendants came to claim the
spoil of a prince who was his cousin.
Siddhartha answered quietly: "My cousin attempted only to destroy the
swan, I claim it since I have attempted to save it. Let the councilors
of the king decide between us."
So the quarrel of the princes was brought before the royal council and
the swan was given to the boy who was to be the Buddha.
So having reflected upon the dreamlike beauty of swans, the artist
dipped his brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a swan.
* * * * *
No sooner was the swan drawn than Good Fortune came out of the artist's
shadow and looked at it well and long. Then she turned politely to the
artist.
"There is wind under those wings, sir," she seemed to say. But there
was just a hint in her manner to suggest that she thought his time
might be better employed than in drawing birds.
* * * * *
The artist took food, and wandered for a few minutes in his little
garden to refresh himself with the touch of the sun and the sound of
the wind. He returned to his study by the hydrangeas and was about to
think once more, when the housekeeper appeared at the door and bowed
deeply.
"My master will weary himself into a fever," she said, politely but
obstinately. "You have seen Buddha and gods and horses, and that
elephant curiosity, and snails and swans and--goodness only knows what
else, all in a few days! It is more than flesh can bear! Your honored
forehead looks like a scrubbing board and your eyes like candles. Now
our neighbor has just sent his servant to invite you to take tea with
him and I have said that you would be there directly."
Having spoken so firmly she stood leaning forward with her hands on her
knees, the picture of meekness.
"You may argue with a stone Jizo by the roadside, but you waste your
breath if you argue with a woman!" cried the artist. He took a silver
piece out of the priest's purse and gave it to her.
"Go, buy yourself some fine new material for a dress," he said. "It is
a long time since you had anything pretty."
"A thousand thanks to your honor!" cried the housekeeper, much pleased,
"and I will shut up Good Fortune in the bamboo basket while we are out
of the house. You would think the picture was sugar painted on cream to
watch her. I am afraid to leave her alone with it."
So it was not until the next morning that the artist was allowed to
meditate in peace on the nature of buffalo. He thought how ugly they
are, and how their horns curve like heavy moons on their foreheads. He
thought how strong they are, and yet how willing to labor all day for
their masters. He thought how fierce they are when attacked even by
tigers, yet the village children ride on their backs as safe as birds
on a twig.
The spirit of Buddha himself had not been too proud to be born in
the body of a buffalo. There were many stories of those days but the
one that the artist remembered best told of how the holy buffalo had
belonged to a poor man. One day he spoke to his master in a human
voice, and said, "Lo, master, you are poor. I would willingly do
something to help you. Go to the villagers and tell them that you have
an animal here who can pull a hundred carts loaded with stones. They
will bet that this is impossible and you will win a fortune."
But when the villagers had fastened the carts together and loaded them
with heavy stones, and the great beast was harnessed to the first cart,
the owner behaved after the manner of common drivers, brandishing his
goad and cursing his animal to show off before the others. The buffalo
would not move so much as an inch.
His owner, who had been poor before, was a good deal poorer after that.
But one evening the buffalo said to him again:
"Why did you threaten me? Why did you curse me? Go to the villagers and
bet again, twice as much this time. But treat me well."
Again the heavy carts were yoked together, again the villagers
gathered, snickering behind their hands. But this time the poor man
bathed his buffalo, and fed it sweet grain, and put a garland of
flowers about its neck. When the creature was fastened to the first of
the hundred carts, his master stroked him and cried:
"Forward, my beauty! On! on! my treasure!" and the buffalo strained
forward and pulled and stretched his muscles until they nearly cracked,
and slowly, surely, the hundred carts moved forward.
Now when the artist had considered the honesty and self-respect of the
buffalo, he dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink and
drew a buffalo.
* * * * *
No sooner was the buffalo drawn than Good Fortune came out of the
artist's shadow and regarded it with the air of one who is trying to
hide a certain dissatisfaction. Then she looked at the artist.
"Truly a buffalo!" she seemed to say, but something about the creature,
perhaps its few hairs, must have tickled her sense of humor, for all at
once she giggled. Quickly she lifted one little white paw, and broke
into a series of polite sneezes.
* * * * *
It may be that the artist was a little annoyed with Good Fortune, for,
hardly knowing it himself, he had come to count on her praise. Yet it
may have been pure chance which made him reflect next on dogs.
He thought of them as puppies, balls of down playing in the snow, with
round black eyes and moist black muzzles. He thought of them as grown
up, following their masters with lean strides or guarding lonely farms.
He almost felt their warm tongues licking his hand, or saw them prance
and roll to catch his eye.
"How faithful!" he thought, and tried to remember some tale of the
spirit of Buddha in the form of a dog. But either he had forgotten it,
or there was no such story. So he called to the housekeeper.
The old woman came in and bowed deeply to her master.
"Do sit down," said the artist, "and tell me any story about dogs that
may happen to come into your head."
The old woman brought out a handkerchief and wiped her forehead. Then
she sat down and bowed.
"In my village, sir," she began, "people say there once stood a ruined
temple. After the priests left it, goblins and demons lived there.
Every year they demanded a sacrifice of a maiden from the town, or
they swore they would destroy every one. So on a certain day each
year a girl was put into a basket and taken into the enclosure of the
temple. She was never seen again. But at last the lot fell to a little
girl who owned a dog named Shippeitaro. All the village put on white
for mourning. All day the sound of weeping was heard in the street.
But before evening a stranger came into the town. He was a wandering
soldier. The night before he had slept in a ruined temple."
"The temple of the goblins?" asked the artist.
"Yes, master," said the old woman, "it was the same temple. The
soldier had been wakened in the night by a great racket. A voice over
his head was saying, 'But never let Shippeitaro know--Shippeitaro would
ruin everything.'
"When the soldier told his story, Shippeitaro became greatly excited.
He ran to the basket, wagging his tail, and clawed at its side.
"'Let him be taken to the temple in place of his mistress,' said the
soldier, and Shippeitaro leaped of his own free will into the basket
and was carried through the gathering darkness to the temple courtyard.
Then the bearers hurried away, but the soldier hid himself and waited.
"At midnight he heard the most terrible yowlings approaching. They were
enough to freeze the blood cold in one's veins. He peered out and saw
a troupe of goblins prying off the lid of the basket. But instead of
a frightened girl, out jumped Shippeitaro and sprang at the leader's
throat. The other goblins fled and they have never been seen or heard
of since.
"So the good dog Shippeitaro saved not only his mistress but all the
village."
The artist thanked the old woman for her story. Good Fortune, who had
found a mat to sit on, had been listening as attentively as her master.
"What form had these goblins?" asked the artist.
"Cats," answered the housekeeper, almost in a whisper, hoping that Good
Fortune would not hear. But Good Fortune did hear. With a sad look at
the old woman she rose and walked out of the room.
The artist, after reflecting upon the fidelity of dogs, dipped a brush
in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a dog.
Good Fortune did not come back all day to look at it.
* * * * *
_The Fifth Song of the Housekeeper_
Dear pussy, you are white as milk,
Your mouth's a blossom, your coat's silk--
What most distinguished family tree
Produced so great a rarity?
Dear pussy, you are soft and sweet;
You are too holy to touch meat--
What most distinguished family tree
Produced so great a rarity?
Dear pussy, you must never think
I thought you kin to cats like ink--
For goblin beasts could never be
Produced by such a family tree!
By such a lovely family tree!
* * * * *
The next day when the artist seated himself upon his mat there was no
Good Fortune sitting quiet near by but discreetly out of the way. For
a few minutes he could not help thinking of his little three-colored
cat, but soon he was able to turn his mind to deer. He must paint the
animals who came to bid farewell to the Buddha, and he knew the cat was
not among them.
At first his thought was sad, but little by little he imagined a forest
about him, dappled with light and shade, and he himself was a deer,
setting small hoofs like ebony among the leaves, making no sound,
listening with head raised high under its fairy branching of horns.
A herd of deer followed him, the young males and the does and the
fawns. He led them to secret pastures. His wide nostrils scented the
wind for danger at each water hole before the others came to drink. If
an enemy appeared, he guarded the flight of the herd. His sides were
set with spots like jewels; his horns were more beautiful than temple
candlesticks; his eyes were shy and wild.
Slowly, while the artist wandered through imaginary forests as a deer,
he felt growing within him the spirit of the Buddha, and he knew that
he was the Banyan deer. Then it seemed to him that he and his herd
had been driven into a great enclosure with another herd of deer whose
leader was almost as beautiful as he. His heart beat like thunder
between his ribs and a darkness came before his eyes, but his fear was
for the sake of his herd. Then a king came into the enclosure to look
at the deer.
"The leaders are too beautiful to die," he said to his huntsman. "I
grant them their lives. But of the others, see that you bring one each
day to the palace for my banquets."
Then the Banyan deer, who was filled with the spirit of Buddha, said to
all the deer:
"If we are hunted, many deer will be hurt each day. Let us meet this
with fortitude and let a lot be drawn. Let the deer to whom it falls
die voluntarily for the good of the herd."
Now one day the lot fell to a doe whose fawn had not yet been born. It
happened that she belonged to the other herd. She went to the leader
and begged that she might live until the fawn was born.
"We can make no exceptions," said he sadly.
But when in despair she went to the Banyan deer, he sent her back
comforted.
"I will take your place," he said.
The artist who was living the life of the deer in his mind, felt how
his tenderness for the doe and the unborn fawn overcame his terror and
led him gladly to the huntsman. But when the man saw that it was the
great leader of the deer himself who had come, he sent for the king.
"Did I not grant you your life?" asked the king, surprised.
Then the Banyan deer found a human voice to answer.
"O king!" he said, "the lot had fallen upon a doe with an unborn fawn.
I could not ask another to take her place."
Then the king, pleased by the deer's generosity, granted their lives
both to him and to the doe.
Still the Banyan deer was not satisfied, but pled for his people.
"But the others, O king?" he asked.
"They too shall live," said the king.
"There are also the deer outside the palings," went on the Banyan deer.
"They shall not be troubled," replied the king.
"O king," continued the deer who had always lived in danger and pitied
all creatures in the same case, "what shall other four-footed creatures
do?"
And the king was so moved by the deer's intended sacrifice that he too
felt tenderly toward the world.
"They shall have no reason for fear," he answered.
Then the deer interceded for the birds and even for the fish, and when
their safety was promised, he blessed the king with a great blessing.
The artist, whose heart had seemed torn with timidity and gentle
courage while he imagined himself the Banyan deer, quickly caught up a
brush, dipped it in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a deer.
* * * * *
No sooner was the deer drawn than Good Fortune came out unexpectedly
from the artist's shadow (she had entered so quietly he had never
noticed) and looked long at the picture.
"Miaou," she said, sadly turning to the artist. "Is there no room for
me among the other animals, master?" she seemed to ask.
After that the artist drew many creatures. In each of them the spirit
of the Buddha had at one time lived, or it had rendered service to him
when he was a prince on earth. There were the woodpecker, and the hare
who jumped into the frying pan of the beggar, and the lion who saved
the young hawks, and the goose who gave his golden feathers to the old
woman, and the wise little goat who outwitted the wolves, and many
others.
He drew a monkey, too, remembering how when the spirit of Buddha lived
in an ape, a man, wandering in the jungle, had fallen into a deep pit.
Then the great ape, having heard his groans, found a voice to reassure
him. He climbed down into the pit, and fastening a stone to his back,
tested his strength to make sure that he could climb out once more
carrying the man. At last, having succeeded, the ape was so exhausted
that he knew he must sleep or he would die. So he begged the man to
watch by him while he slept. But as the man watched, evil thoughts came
into his mind.
"If I only had meat to eat I should easily be strong enough to find my
way home," he thought.
Forgetting gratitude, he picked up a large stone and struck the monkey
on the head. But the blow of his weak arm had little strength. The
ape started up and saw that it was the man whom he had saved who had
tried to kill him. Surprise and sorrow filled him at such ingratitude.
Nevertheless he led the man out of the forest to the edge of the fields
and bade him farewell, showing compassion even to his betrayer.
The artist remembered also how the monkeys had brought fruit to the
Buddha when he sat in meditation in the forest and coaxed him to eat
with their droll ways.
So having meditated upon the monkey, the artist dipped a brush in
spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a monkey.
* * * * *
And as the painting of each animal was finished Good Fortune came to
look at it, and with each new drawing she seemed sadder and pulled with
her little white paw at the sleeve of her master, looking up all the
time into his face.
* * * * *
_The Sixth Song of the Housekeeper_
She's sure to starve,
She _won't_ grow fat,
No dinner tempts
Our little cat!
All day I follow,
All day I cry,
"Come pussy, come pussy,"
As she goes by.
But she will starve,
She _won't_ grow fat,
It's always that painting
She's looking at.
All day I grieve
To hear her cry,
"Miaou, miaou,"
As I go by!
* * * * *
One day the artist sat on his mat and his mind wrestled with a more
difficult problem than any before. He knew that the tiger had also
come to bid farewell to the Buddha. How could that be? He thought of
the fierceness and cruelty of tigers, he imagined them lying in the
striped shadows of the jungle with their eyes burning like fires. Then
he remembered how fond they were of their own cubs, and how they would
face any odds if their cubs were in danger. He thought to himself:
"It may be that this is the narrow pathway by which the tiger reaches
to Buddha. It may be that there is a fierceness in love, and love in
fierceness."
Then he remembered a scene at the wedding of Siddhartha and Yosadhara.
The young prince, who was to be the Buddha, had proved his skill and
courage above all the other princes. In her golden palanquin sat the
princess, her head covered with a veil of black and gold. As her father
led the victor to her side, Siddhartha whispered, "By your veil I know
that you remember how in another life you were once a tigress and I the
tiger who won you in open fight."
Having meditated upon this sinister but beautiful creature, capable of
any burning sacrifice, the artist dipped his brush in spring water,
touched it with ink, and drew a tiger.
Good Fortune came out from his shadow. When she saw the tiger she
trembled all over, from her thistle-down whiskers to her little tail,
and she looked at the artist.
"If the tiger can come to bid farewell to Buddha," she seemed to say,
"surely the cat, who is little and often so gentle may come, O master?
Surely, surely, you will next paint the cat among the animals who were
blessed by the Holy One as he died?"
The artist was much distressed.
"Good Fortune," he said, gently taking her into his arms, "I would
gladly paint the cat if I could. But all people know that cats, though
lovely, are usually proud and self-satisfied. Alone among the animals,
the cat refused to accept the teachings of Buddha. She alone, of all
creatures, was not blessed by him. It is perhaps in grief that she too
often consorts with goblins."
Then Good Fortune laid her little round head against his breast and
mewed and mewed like a crying child. He comforted her as well as he
could and called for the housekeeper.
"Buy her a fine fish all for herself," he said to the old woman. "And
do not let her come here again until the picture is gone. She will
break both our hearts."
"Ah, I was afraid she meant to do the painting a harm," said the old
woman anxiously. For she felt very responsible for having brought the
cat home against her master's will, now that their fortunes hung on
this painting for the temple.
"It is not that," said the artist, and he returned to his thoughts.
How tired, how worn he looked, and yet how beautiful! His picture was
almost finished. He had imagined every life. There lay the great figure
of the dying Buddha, royal, weary, compassionate. There assembled gods
and men; and there were the animals--the scroll of silk seemed scarcely
large enough to hold all those varied lives, all that gathering of
devotion about that welling up of love.
But something was excluded. From the kitchen he heard a faint mewing,
and the housekeeper's voice urging Good Fortune to eat, in vain. The
artist imagined how his little cat felt, so gentle, so sweet, but
cursed forever. All the other animals might receive the Buddha's
blessing and go to heaven, but the little cat heard the doors of
Nirvana closed before her. Tears came to his eyes.
"I cannot be so hard-hearted," he said. "If the priests wish to refuse
the picture as inaccurate, let them do so. I can starve."
He took up his best brush and touched it with ink, and last of all the
animals--_drew a cat_.
* * * * *
Then he called the housekeeper.
"Let Good Fortune come in," he said. "Perhaps I have ruined us, but I
can at least make her happy."
In came Good Fortune, the moment that the door was slid open. She
ran to the picture, and looked and looked, as though she could never
look enough. Then she gazed at the artist with all her gratitude in
her eyes. And then Good Fortune fell dead, too happy to live another
minute.
* * * * *
_The Seventh Song of the Housekeeper_
_I can't believe it--
(And how I've cried!)
But out of pure joy
Good Fortune died.
At the foot of her grave
Lie a flower and a shell,
In the peach tree near by
Hangs a little bell,
A little old bell
With a sweet cracked voice,
When a wind passes by
It sings, "Rejoice!"
"Rejoice!" it sings
Through the gardenside,
"For out of pure joy
Good Fortune died!"
* * * * *
The next morning, hearing that the picture was finished, the priest
came to see it. After the first greetings, the artist led him in to
look at the painting. The priest gazed long.
"How it shines," he said softly.
Then his face hardened.
"But what is that animal whom you have painted last of all?" he asked.
"It is a cat," said the painter, and his heart felt heavy with despair.
"Do you not know," asked the priest sternly, "that the cat rebelled
against our Lord Buddha, and did not receive his blessing and cannot
enter heaven?"
"Yes, I knew," said the artist.
"Each person must suffer the consequences of his own acts," said the
priest. "The cat must suffer from her obstinacy and you from yours.
As one can never erase work once done, I will take the painting and
to-morrow officially burn it. Some other artist's picture must hang in
our temple."
All day the housekeeper wept in the kitchen, for in bringing the little
cat home she had, after all, ruined her master.
All day the artist sat in the room beside the hydrangeas and thought.
His painting was gone and with it the part of his life which he had
put into it. To-morrow the priests would harshly burn it in the
courtyard of the temple. Less than ever would any one come to him now.
He was ruined and all his hopes gone. But he did not regret what he
had done. For so many days had he lived in the thought of love and the
examples of sacrifice, that it did not seem too hard to suffer for Good
Fortune's great moment of happiness.
All night he sat open-eyed with his thoughts in the darkness. The old
woman dared not interrupt. He saw the pale light enter through the
blinds and heard the dawn wind in the hydrangea bushes. An hour later,
he heard the noise of people running toward his house. The priests of
the temple surrounded him; the head priest pulled at his sleeve.
"Come! Come!" they kept crying. "Come, sir! It is a miracle! Oh, the
compassion of Buddha! Oh, the mercy of the Holy One!"
Dazed and breathless, the artist followed them, seeing nothing of the
village or the road to the temple. He heard happy voices in his ears,
he caught a glimpse of his old housekeeper with her sash askew, and
a crowd of open-mouthed neighbors. All together they poured into the
temple. There hung his picture with incense and candles burning before
it. It was as he had remembered it, but, no!----
The artist sank down to his knees with a cry:
"Oh, the Compassionate One!" For where the last animal had stood was
now only white silk that seemed never to have felt the touch of ink;
and the great Buddha, the Buddha whom he had painted reclining with
hands folded upon his breast, had stretched out an arm in blessing, and
under the holy hand knelt the figure of a tiny cat, with pretty white
head bowed in happy adoration.
* * * * *
_The Eighth Song of the Housekeeper_
This is too great a mystery
For me to comprehend:
The mercy of the Buddha
Has no end.
This is too beautiful a thing
To understand:
His garments touch the furthest
Grain of sand.
* * * * *
ELIZABETH COATSWORTH
As a poet and short story writer, Miss Coatsworth has made a name
in the field of adult writing. For young readers, her stories have
grown out of her travels all over the world. Each includes her love
of strange people, her love of animals, and also, inevitably, some
delightful bits of her poetry. In private life, she is Mrs. Henry
Beston, of Hingham, Massachusetts.
TOUTOU IN BONDAGE
The story of a little dog lost in Morocco.
Illustrated by Thomas Handforth.
THE SUN'S DIARY
A book of days for any year.
Illustrated by Frank MacIntosh.
THE BOY WITH THE PARROT
An adventure story of Guatemala today.
Illustrated by Wilfrid Bronson.
THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN
A story of New England. (The Little Library)
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY _Publishers New York_
* * * * *
THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN
To the discriminating the name of Elizabeth Coatsworth signed to a
piece of writing brings always a premonitory thrill of pure delight.
They know that they may confidently expect from her delicacy and
sureness of touch combined with deep feeling, and an originality and
freshness all too seldom found.
This title is most decidedly a book for grown-ups to enjoy with
children and read aloud to them.
_Marcia Dalphin, The Saturday Review of Literature_
It is a book that will give perennial joy to girls and boys on the road
to the teens, to artists, poets, and "housekeepers," for the eight
songs of the housekeeper who serves the painter, marking interludes
of time in the progress of the painting, amidst the daily round of
cooking, sweeping, and scrubbing, have the value of so many pictures
while preserving the rhythm of the story throughout.
It is the gift of Miss Coatsworth's story, as it is of Mr. Ward's noble
presentations of the elephant, the horse, the bull, and the deer, to
stir the spirit of beauty and tenderness toward all living things.
_Anne Carroll Moore, The New York Herald-Tribune_
There is no fair way to describe this story of a little cat who came
to the house of a Japanese artist and brought good fortune, short of
telling it; this I have done to people of all ages and sizes and every
one has straightway made the book his own. I think if this cat had not
gone to heaven in the end, there would have been rioting among the
children of America. As for the wash drawings of Lynd Ward, they are
the very spirits of the animals that come in one by one, for this is a
series of legends worked into a moving plot.
_May Lamberton Becker, The Outlook_
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