Produced by Eric Eldred and Chetan K Jain. The Crescent Moon By Rabindranath Tagore Translated from the original Bengali by the author with eight illustrations in colour London and New York: Macmillan and Company, 1913 TO T. STURGE MOORE [Frontispiece: From a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see cbeach.jpg] CONTENTS THE HOME ON THE SEASHORE THE SOURCE BABY'S WAY THE UNHEEDED PAGEANT SLEEP-STEALER THE BEGINNING BABY'S WORLD WHEN AND WHY DEFAMATION THE JUDGE PLAYTHINGS THE ASTRONOMER CLOUDS AND WAVES THE CHAMPA FLOWER FAIRYLAND THE LAND OF THE EXILE THE RAINY DAY PAPER BOATS THE SAILOR THE FURTHER BANK THE FLOWER-SCHOOL THE MERCHANT SYMPATHY VOCATION SUPERIOR THE LITTLE BIG MAN TWELVE O'CLOCK AUTHORSHIP THE WICKED POSTMAN THE HERO THE END THE RECALL THE FIRST JASMINES THE BANYAN TREE BENEDICTION THE GIFT MY SONG THE CHILD-ANGEL THE LAST BARGAIN LIST OF COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS FRONTISPIECE THE HOME THE BEGINNING FAIRYLAND PAPER BOATS THE MERCHANT THE HERO BENEDICTION INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES Ah, these jasmines Ah, who was it coloured that little frock Bless this little heart Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust Come and hire me Day by day I float my paper boats I am small because I am a little child If baby only wanted to, he could fly If I were only a little puppy If people came to know where my king's palace is I long to go over there Imagine, mother I only said, "When in the evening" I paced alone It is time for me to go, mother I want to give you something, my child I wish I could take a quiet corner Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons Mother, let us imagine we are travelling Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds Mother, the light has grown grey Mother, your baby is silly On the seashore of endless worlds O you shaggy-headed banyan tree Say of him what you please Sullen clouds are gathering Supposing I became a _champa_ flower The boat of the boatman Madhu The night was dark when we went away The sleep that flits on baby's eyes They clamour and fight This song of mine When I bring you coloured toys When storm clouds When the gong sounds ten Where have I come from Who stole sleep from baby's eyes Why are those tears in your eyes, my child Why do you sit there on the floor You say that father writes a lot of books [Illustration: The Home--from a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see chome.jpg] THE HOME I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was hiding its last gold like a miser. The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent. Suddenly a boy's shrill voice rose into the sky. He traversed the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song across the hush of the evening.