“Ay, I was once a famed teller of stories when I was begging on the road between Koshin and Etra, before the last pilgrimage that ever I took to Orissa. I told many tales and heard many more at the rest-houses in the evening when we were merry at the end of the march. It is in my heart that grown men are but as little children in the matter of tales, and the oldest tale is the most beloved.” “With your people that is truth,” said I. “But in regard to our people they desire new tales, and when all is written they rise up and declare that the tale were better told in such and such a manner, and doubt either the truth or the invention thereof.” “But what folly is theirs!” said Gobind, throwing out his knotted hand. “A tale that is told is a true tale as long as the telling lasts. And of their talk upon it—you know how Bilas Khan, that was the prince of tale-tellers, said to one who mocked him in the great rest-house on the Jhelum road: ‘Go on, my brother, and finish that I have begun,’ and he who mocked took up the tale, but having neither voice nor manner for the task, came to a standstill, and the pilgrims at supper made him eat abuse and stick half that night.” “Nay, but with our people, money having passed, it is their right; as we should turn against a shoeseller in regard to shoes if those wore out. If ever I make a book you shall see and judge.” “And the parrot said to the falling tree, Wait, brother, till I fetch a prop!” said Gobind with a grim chuckle. “God has given me eighty years, and it may be some over. I cannot look for more than day granted by day and as a favour at this tide. Be swift.” “In what manner is it best to set about the task,” said I, “O chiefest of those who string pearls with their tongue?” “How do I know? Yet”—he thought for a little—“how should I not know? God has made very many heads, but there is only one heart in all the world among your people or my people. They are children in the matter of tales.” “But none are so terrible as the little ones, if a man misplace a word, or in a second telling vary events by so much as one small devil.” “Ay, I also have told tales to the little ones, but do thou this—” His old eyes fell on the gaudy paintings of the wall, the blue and red dome, and the flames of the poinsettias beyond. “Tell them first of those things that thou hast seen and they have seen together. Thus their knowledge will piece out thy imperfections. Tell them of what thou alone hast seen, then what thou hast heard, and since they be children tell them of battles and kings, horses, devils, elephants, and angels, but omit not to tell them of love and such like. All the earth is full of tales to him who listens and does not drive away the poor from his door. The poor are the best of tale-tellers; for they must lay their ear to the ground every night.” After this conversation the idea grew in my head, and Gobind was pressing in his inquiries as to the health of the book.