The Aged Mother

by Matsuo Basho

Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged, widowed mother. They
owned a bit of land which supplied them with food, and they were humble, peaceful, and happy.

Shining was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a great and cowardly shrinking
from anything suggestive of failing health and strength. This caused him to send out a cruel proclamation.
The entire province was given strict orders to immediately put to death all aged people. Those were
barbarous days, and the custom of abandoning old people to die was not uncommon. The poor farmer
loved his aged mother with tender reverence, and the order filled his heart with sorrow. But no one ever
thought twice about obeying the mandate of the governor, so with many deep and hopeless sighs, the
youth prepared for what at that time was considered the kindest mode of death.

Just at sundown, when his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of unwhitened rice which was the
principal food for the poor, and he cooked, dried it, and tied it in a square cloth, which he swung in a
bundle around his neck along with a gourd filled with cool, sweet water. Then he lifted his helpless old
mother to his back and started on his painful journey up the mountain. The road was long and steep; the
narrow road was crossed and re-crossed by many paths made by the hunters and woodcutters. In some
place, they lost and confused, but he gave no heed. One path or another, it mattered not. On he went,
climbing blindly upward -- ever upward towards the high bare summit of what is known as Obatsuyama,
the mountain of the “abandoning of the aged.”

The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but that they noted the reckless hastening from one path to
another, and her loving heart grew anxious. Her son did not know the mountain’s many paths and his
return might be one of danger, so she stretched forth her hand and snapping the twigs from brushes as
they passed, she quietly dropped a handful every few steps of the way so that as they climbed, the narrow
path behind them was dotted at frequent intervals with tiny piles of twigs. At last the summit was reached.
Weary and heart sick, the youth gently released his burden and silently prepared a place of comfort as his
last duty to the loved one. Gathering fallen pine needles, he made a soft cushion and tenderly lifted his old
mother onto it. Hew rapped her padded coat more closely about the stooping shoulders and with tearful
eyes and an aching heart he said farewell.

The trembling mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her last injunction. “Let not thine
eyes be blinded, my son.” She said. “The mountain road is full of dangers. LOOK carefully and follow the
path which holds the piles of twigs. They will guide you to the familiar path farther down.” The son’s
surprised eyes looked back over the path, then at the poor old, shriveled hands all scratched and soiled by
their work of love. His heart broke within and bowing to the ground, he cried aloud: “oh, Honorable
mother, your kindness breaks my heart! I will not leave you. Together we will follow the path of twigs,
and together we will die!”

Once more he shouldered his burden (how light it seemed now) and hastened down the path, through the
shadows and the moonlight, to the little hut in the valley. Beneath the kitchen floor was a walled closet
for food, which was covered and hidden from view. There the son hid his mother, supplying her with
everything she needed, continually watching and fearing she would be discovered. Time passed, and he
was beginning to feel safe when again the governor sent forth heralds bearing an unreasonable order,
seemingly as a boast of his power. His demand was that his subjects should present him with a rope of
ashes.
The entire province trembled with dread. The order must be obeyed yet who in all Shining could make a
rope of ashes? One night, in great distress, the son whispered the news to his hidden mother. “Wait!” she
said. “I will think. I will think” On the second day she told him what to do. “Make rope of twisted straw,”
she said. “Then stretch it upon a row of flat stones and burn it on a windless night.” He called the people
together and did as she said and when the blaze died down, there upon the stones, with every twist and
fiber showing perfectly, lay a rope of ashes.

The governor was pleased at the wit of the youth and praised greatly, but he demanded to know where he
had obtained his wisdom. “Alas! Alas!” cried the farmer, “the truth must be told!” and with deep bows he
related his story. The governor listened and then meditated in silence. Finally he lifted his head. “Shining
needs more than strength of youth,” he said gravely. “Ah, that I should have forgotten the well-known
saying, “with the crown of snow, there cometh wisdom!” That very hour the cruel law was abolished, and
custom drifted into as far a past that only legends remain. (894)

Work, Death and Sickness

by Leo Tolstoy

WORK, DEATH AND SICKNESS

 A LEGEND.

THIS is a legend current among the South American Indians.

God, say they, at first made men so that they had no need to work: they needed neither houses, nor
clothes, nor food, and they all lived till they were a hundred, and did not know what illness was.
When, after some time, God looked to see how people were living, he saw that instead of being happy in
their life, they had quarrelled with one another, and, each caring for himself, had brought matters to such
a pass that far from enjoying life, they cursed it.

Then God said to himself: 'This comes of their living separately, each for himself.' And to change this
state of things, God so arranged matters that it became impossible for people to live without working. To
avoid suffering from cold and hunger, they were now obliged to build dwellings, and to dig the ground,
and to grow and gather fruits and grain.

'Work will bring them together,' thought God. 'They cannot make their tools, prepare and transport their
timber, build their houses, sow and gather their harvests, spin and weave, and make their clothes, each
one alone by himself.'

'It will make them understand that the more heartily they work together, the more they will have and the
better they will live; and this will unite them.'

Time passed on, and again God came to see how men were living, and whether they were now happy.
But he found them living worse than before. They worked together (that they could not help doing), but
not all together, being broken up into little groups. And each group tried to snatch work from other
groups, and they hindered one another, wasting time and strength in their struggles, so that things went ill
with them all.

Having seen that this, too, was not well, God decided so as to arrange things that man should not know
the time of his death, but might die at any moment; and he announced this to them.
'Knowing that each of them may die at any moment,' thought God, 'they will not, by grasping at gains that
may last so short a time, spoil the hours of life allotted to them.'
But it turned out otherwise. When God returned to see how people were living, he saw that their life was
as bad as ever.

Those who were strongest, availing themselves of the fact that men might die at any time, subdued those
who were weaker, killing some and threatening others with death. And it came about that the strongest
and their descendants did no work, and suffered from the weariness of idleness, while those who were
weaker had to work beyond their strength, and suffered from lack of rest. Each set of men feared and
hated the other. And the life of man became yet more unhappy.
Having seen all this, God, to mend matters, decided to make use of one last means; he sent all kinds of
sickness among men. God thought that when all men were exposed to sickness they would understand
that those who are well should have pity on those who are sick, and should help them, that when they
themselves fall ill those who are well might in turn help them.

And again God went away, but when He came back to see how men lived now that they were subject to
sicknesses, he saw that their life was worse even than before. The very sickness that in God's purpose
should have united men, had divided them more than ever. Those men who were strong enough to make
others work, forced them also to wait on them in times of sickness; but they did not, in their turn, look
after others who were ill. And those who were forced to work for others and to look after them when sick,
were so worn with work that they had no time to look after their own sick, but left them without
attendance. That the sight of sick folk might not disturb the pleasures of the wealthy, houses were
arranged in which these poor people suffered and died, far from those whose sympathy might have
cheered them, and in the arms of hired people who nursed them without compassion, or even with
disgust. Moreover, people considered many of the illnesses infectious, and, fearing to catch them, not
only avoided the sick, but even separated themselves from those who attended the sick.

Then God said to Himself: 'If even this means will not bring men to understand wherein their happiness
lies, let them be taught by suffering.' And God left men to themselves.
And, left to themselves, men lived long before they understood that they all ought to, and might be,
happy. Only in the very latest times have a few of them begun to understand that work ought not to be a
bugbear to some and like galley-slavery for others, but should be a common and happy occupation,
uniting all men. They have begun to understand that with death constantly threatening each of us, the only
reasonable business of every man is to spend the years, months, hours, and minutes, allotted him—in
unity and love. They have begun to understand that sickness, far from dividing men, should, on the
contrary, give opportunity for loving union with one another. (893)

1903.

The Five Boons of Life

by Mark Twain

A "boon" (noun) is something that is considered beneficial or helpful.

Chapter I
In the morning of life came a good fairy with her basket, and said:
"Here are gifts. Take one, leave the others. And be wary, chose wisely; oh, choose wisely! for only one of
them is valuable."
The gifts were five: Fame, Love, Riches, Pleasure, Death. The youth said, eagerly:
"There is no need to consider"; and he chose Pleasure.
He went out into the world and sought out the pleasures that youth delights in. But each in its turn was
short-lived and disappointing, vain and empty; and each, departing, mocked him. In the end he said:
"These years I have wasted. If I could but choose again, I would choose wisely.

Chapter II
The fairy appeared, and said:
"Four of the gifts remain. Choose once more; and oh, remember-- time is flying, and only one of them is
precious."
The man considered long, then chose Love; and did not mark the tears that rose in the fairy's eyes.
After many, many years the man sat by a coffin, in an empty home. And he communed with himself,
saying: "One by one they have gone away and left me; and now she lies here, the dearest and the last.
Desolation after desolation has swept over me; for each hour of happiness the treacherous trader, Love, as
sold me I have paid a thousand hours of grief. Out of my heart of hearts I curse him."

Chapter III
"Choose again." It was the fairy speaking.
"The years have taught you wisdom--surely it must be so. Three gifts remain. Only one of them has any
worth--remember it, and choose warily."
The man reflected long, then chose Fame; and the fairy, sighing, went her way.
Years went by and she came again, and stood behind the man where he sat solitary in the fading day,
thinking. And she knew his thought:
"My name filled the world, and its praises were on every tongue, and it seemed well with me for a little
while. How little a while it was! Then came envy; then detraction; then calumny; then hate; then
persecution. Then derision, which is the beginning of the end. And last of all came pity, which is the
funeral of fame. Oh, the bitterness and misery of renown! target for mud in its prime, for contempt and
compassion in its decay."

Chapter IV
"Chose yet again." It was the fairy's voice.
"Two gifts remain. And do not despair. In the beginning there was but one that was precious, and it is still
here."
"Wealth--which is power! How blind I was!" said the man. "Now, at last, life will be worth the living. I
will spend, squander, dazzle. These mockers and despisers will crawl in the dirt before me, and I will feed
my hungry heart with their envy. I will have all luxuries, all joys, all enchantments of the spirit, all
contentments of the body that man holds dear. I will buy, buy, buy! deference, respect, esteem, worship--
every pinchbeck grace of life the market of a trivial world can furnish forth. I have lost much time, and
chosen badly heretofore, but let that pass; I was ignorant then, and could but take for best what seemed
so."

Three short years went by, and a day came when the man sat shivering in a mean garret; and he was gaunt
and wan and hollow-eyed, and clothed in rags; and he was gnawing a dry crust and mumbling:
"Curse all the world's gifts, for mockeries and gilded lies! And miscalled, every one. They are not gifts,
but merely lendings. Pleasure, Love, Fame, Riches: they are but temporary disguises for lasting realities--
Pain, Grief, Shame, Poverty. The fairy said true; in all her store there was but one gift which was
precious, only one that was not valueless. How poor and cheap and mean I know those others now to be,
compared with that inestimable one, that dear and sweet and kindly one, that steeps in dreamless and
enduring sleep the pains that persecute the body, and the shames and griefs that eat the mind and heart.
Bring it! I am weary, I would rest."

Chapter V
The fairy came, bringing again four of the gifts, but Death was wanting. She said:
"I gave it to a mother's pet, a little child. It was ignorant, but trusted me, asking me to choose for it. You
did not ask me to choose."
"Oh, miserable me! What is left for me?"
"What not even you have deserved: the wanton insult of Old Age."(760)

The King and His Hawk

by James Baldwin

Genghis Khan was a great king and warrior.

He led his army into China and Persia, and he conquered many lands. In every country, men told about
his daring deeds; and they said that since Alexander the Great there had been no king like him.
One morning when he was home from the wars, he rode out into the woods to have a day's sport. Many of
his friends were with him. They rode out gayly, carrying their bows and arrows. Behind them came the
servants with the hounds.

It was a merry hunting party. The woods rang with their shouts and laughter. They expected to carry
much game home in the evening.

On the king's wrist sat his favorite hawk; for in those days hawks were trained to hunt. At a word from
their masters they would fly high up into the air, and look around for prey. If they chanced to see a deer or
a rabbit, they would swoop down upon it swift as any arrow.
All day long Genghis Khan and his huntsmen rode through the woods. But they did not find as much
game as they expected.

Toward evening they started for home. The king had often ridden through the woods, and he knew all the
paths. So while the rest of the party took the nearest way, he went by a longer road through a valley
between two mountains.

The day had been warm, and the king was very thirsty. His pet hawk had left his wrist and flown away. It
would be sure to find its way home.

The king rode slowly along. He had once seen a spring of clear water near this path-way. If he could only
find it now! But the hot days of summer had dried up all the mountain brooks.

At last, to his joy, he saw some water trickling down over the edge of a rock. He knew that there was a
spring farther up. In the wet season, a swift stream of water always poured down here; but now it came
only one drop at a time.

The king leaped from his horse. He took a little silver cup from his hunting bag. He held it so as to catch
the slowly falling drops.

It took a long time to fill the cup; and the king was so thirsty that he could hardly wait. At last it was
nearly full. He put the cup to his lips, and was about to drink.

All at once there was a whirring sound in the air, and the cup was knocked from his hands. The water was
all spilled upon the ground.

The king looked up to see who had done this thing. It was his pet hawk.
The hawk flew back and forth a few times, and then alighted among the rocks by the spring.
The king picked up the cup, and again held it to catch the trickling drops.
This time he did not wait so long. When the cup was half full, he lifted it toward his mouth. But before it
had touched his lips, the hawk swooped down again, and knocked it from his hands.
And now the king began to grow angry. He tried again; and for the third time the hawk kept him from
drinking.

The king was now very angry indeed.

"How do you dare to act so?" he cried. "If I had you in my hands, I would wring your neck!"
Then he filled the cup again. But before he tried to drink, he drew his sword.
"Now, Sir Hawk," he said, "this is the last time."

He had hardly spoken, before the hawk swooped down and knocked the cup from his hand. But the king
was looking for this. With a quick sweep of the sword he struck the bird as it passed.
The next moment the poor hawk lay bleeding and dying at its master's feet.
"That is what you get for your pains," said Genghis Khan.
But when he looked for his cup, he found that it had fallen between two rocks, where he could not reach
it.

"At any rate, I will have a drink from that spring," he said to himself.
With that he began to climb the steep bank to the place from which the water trickled. It was hard work,
and the higher he climbed, the thirstier he became.
At last he reached the place. There indeed was a pool of water; but what was that lying in the pool, and
almost filling it? It was a huge, dead snake of the most poisonous kind.

The king stopped. He forgot his thirst. He thought only of the poor dead bird lying on the ground below
him.

"The hawk saved my life!" he cried; "and how did I repay him? He was my best friend, and I have killed
him."

He clambered down the bank. He took the bird up gently, and laid it in his hunting bag. Then he mounted
his horse and rode swiftly home. He said to himself,--

"I have learned a sad lesson today; and that is, never to do anything in anger."(862)

A Fable
by Mark Twain

Once upon a time an artist who had painted a small and very beautiful picture placed it so that he could
see it in the mirror. He said, "This doubles the distance and softens it, and it is twice as lovely as it was
before."

The animals out in the woods heard of this through the housecat, who was greatly admired by them
because he was so learned, and so refined and civilized, and so polite and high-bred, and could tell them
so much which they didn't know before, and were not certain about afterward. They were much excited
about this new piece of gossip, and they asked questions, so as to get at a full understanding of it. They
asked what a picture was, and the cat explained.

"It is a flat thing," he said; "wonderfully flat, marvelously flat, enchantingly flat and elegant. And, oh, so
beautiful!"

That excited them almost to a frenzy, and they said they would give the world to see it. Then the bear
asked:
"What is it that makes it so beautiful?"
"It is the looks of it," said the cat.
This filled them with admiration and uncertainty, and they were more excited than ever. Then the cow
asked:
"What is a mirror?"
"It is a hole in the wall," said the cat. "You look in it, and there you see the picture, and it is so dainty and
charming and ethereal and inspiring in its unimaginable beauty that your head turns round and round, and
you almost swoon with ecstasy."

The ass had not said anything as yet; he now began to throw doubts. He said there had never been
anything as beautiful as this before, and probably wasn't now. He said that when it took a whole basketful
of sesquipedalian adjectives to whoop up a thing of beauty, it was time for suspicion.

It was easy to see that these doubts were having an effect upon the animals, so the cat went off offended.
The subject was dropped for a couple of days, but in the meantime curiosity was taking a fresh start, aid
there was a revival of interest perceptible. Then the animals assailed the ass for spoiling what could
possibly have been a pleasure to them, on a mere suspicion that the picture was not beautiful, without any
evidence that such was the case. The ass was not, troubled; he was calm, and said there was one way to
find out who was in the right, himself or the cat: he would go and look in that hole, and come back and
tell what he found there. The animals felt relieved and grateful, and asked him to go at once--which he
did.

But he did not know where he ought to stand; and so, through error, he stood between the picture and the
mirror. The result was that the picture had no chance, and didn't show up. He returned home and said:
"The cat lied. There was nothing in that hole but an ass. There wasn't a sign of a flat thing visible. It was a
handsome ass, and friendly, but just an ass, and nothing more."
The elephant asked:
"Did you see it good and clear? Were you close to it?"
"I saw it good and clear, O Hathi, King of Beasts. I was so close that I touched noses with it."
"This is very strange," said the elephant; "the cat was always truthful before--as far as we could make out.
Let another witness try. Go, Baloo, look in the hole, and come and report."
So the bear went. When he came back, he said:
"Both the cat and the ass have lied; there was nothing in the hole but a bear."
Great was the surprise and puzzlement of the animals. Each was now anxious to make the test himself and
get at the straight truth. The elephant sent them one at a time.
First, the cow. She found nothing in the hole but a cow.
The tiger found nothing in it but a tiger.
The lion found nothing in it but a lion.
The leopard found nothing in it but a leopard.
The camel found a camel, and nothing more.
Then Hathi was wroth, and said he would have the truth, if he had to go and fetch it himself. When he
returned, he abused his whole subjectry for liars, and was in an unappeasable fury with the moral and
mental blindness of the cat. He said that anybody but a near-sighted fool could see that there was nothing
in the hole but an elephant.(769)