PAGETT, M. P. The toad beneath the harrow knows Preaches contentment to that toad. Pagett, M. P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith, He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth: " Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September. March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay." March went out with the roses. "" Where is your April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly heat, Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat. Koïl: The nightingale. Punkah: A ceiling fan operated by a native. Pagett, M. P. He grew speckled and lumpy-hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. May set in with a dust-storm,- Pagett went down with the sun. All the delights of the season tickled him one by one. Imprimis - ten days "liver' due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever-slight, but he called it severe. Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat Lowered his portly person made him yearn to depart. He didn't call me a 66 "overpaid," Brahmin," or "bloated," or But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed. July was a trifle unhealthy,— Pagett was ill with fear, Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear. He babbled of "Eastern exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I hadn't seen my children for close upon seven years. Chota Bursat: Lighter rain-storms, preceding the wet season. We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon (I've mentioned Pagett was portly); Pagett went off in a swoon. That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head. And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the laugh died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed for the Lord to deliver another one into my hand. A BALLADE OF JAKKO HILL One moment bid the horses wait, And loosed an idle hour to kill A headless, armless armory That smote us both on Jakko Hill. Ah Heaven! we would wait and wait Here stand the clumsy figure still : Damp with the mist on Jakko Hill. What came of high resolve and great, Whose horse is waiting at your gate? -- As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill! Jakko: A mountain near Simla. |