The list of words to be studied has been chosen from each story in order to bring to notice different types of English words. The lists are in no sense exhaustive. The end in view has been to endeavour to create an interest in Indian words and their history, which may lead on to further study. CONTENTS PAGE THE CABULIWALLAH 3 THE HOME-COMING 21 ONCE THERE WAS A KING 35 THE CHILD'S RETURN 51 MASTER MASHAI 69 SUBHA 101 THE POSTMASTER 115 THE CASTAWAY 129 THE SON OF RASHMANI 151 THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE 203 NOTES 223 THE CABULIWALLAH STORIES FROM TAGORE I THE CABULIWALLAH My five years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively. One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't know anything, does he?" Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!" And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last saying: "Father! what relation is Mother to you?" With a grave face I contrived to say: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!" The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Pratap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third-story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying: "A Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the street below was a Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.