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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78393 ***
+
+
+
+
+                      THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN
+
+                        By ELIZABETH COATSWORTH
+
+                        _Pictures by Lynd Ward_
+
+                           Copyright, 1930,
+                       By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
+
+     _All rights reserved--no part of this book may be reproduced
+    in any form without permission in writing from the publisher._
+
+                        Published August, 1930
+                        Reprinted January, 1931
+                          Reprinted May, 1931
+
+             _Lithographed in the United States of America
+              by the Artcraft Lithograph & Printing Co._
+
+
+                       _By_ ELIZABETH COATSWORTH
+
+                        THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN
+                           TOUTOU IN BONDAGE
+                            THE SUN'S DIARY
+                        THE BOY WITH THE PARROT
+                      THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN
+
+
+               _With other publishers, books of verse_:
+
+                            FOX FOOTPRINTS
+                             BEYOND ATLAS
+                             COMPASS ROSE
+
+
+                                  TO
+                              CYRA THOMAS
+
+
+This new book about an artist, his cook, his painting, and his kitten,
+is a most unusual piece of story telling.
+
+Will the kitten, who brought good luck to the house, be admitted into
+the painting of the great Buddha?
+
+She listens and watches as the artist recalls the story of each animal,
+then paints it. She hears the cook's songs. Does she go to heaven, in
+the procession, with the noble horse and elephant, the beautiful deer
+and tiger, the strange monkey and snail? Read and learn how things
+happened in Japan long ago.
+
+Seldom has an artist caught so exactly an author's intention. The story
+says: then he painted the swan. The picture looks as if the artist's
+brush had just left the canvas. We think that many people of many ages
+will enjoy this story picture book.
+
+
+
+
+                     _THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN_
+
+
+Once upon a time, far away in Japan, a poor young artist sat alone in
+his little house, waiting for his dinner. His housekeeper had gone to
+market, and he sat sighing to think of all the things he wished she
+would bring home. He expected her to hurry in at any minute, bowing and
+opening her little basket to show him how wisely she had spent their
+few pennies. He heard her steps, and jumped up. He was very hungry!
+
+But the housekeeper lingered by the door, and the basket stayed shut.
+
+"Come," he cried, "what is in that basket?"
+
+The housekeeper trembled, and held the basket tight in two hands. "It
+has seemed to me, sir," she said, "that we are very lonely here." Her
+wrinkled face looked humble and obstinate.
+
+"Lonely!" said the artist. "I should think so! How can we have guests
+when we have nothing to offer them? It is so long since I have tasted
+rice cakes that I forget what they taste like!" And he sighed again,
+for he loved rice cakes, and dumplings, and little cakes filled with
+sweet bean jelly. He loved tea served in fine china cups, in company
+with some friend, sitting on flat cushions, talking perhaps about a
+spray of peach blossoms standing like a little princess in an alcove.
+
+But weeks and weeks had gone by since any one had bought even the
+smallest picture. The poor artist was glad enough to have rice and a
+coarse fish now and then. If he did not sell another picture soon he
+would not even have that.
+
+His eyes went back to the basket. Perhaps the old woman had managed to
+pick up a turnip or two, or even a peach too ripe to haggle long over.
+
+"Sir," said the housekeeper, seeing the direction of his look, "it has
+often seemed to me that I was kept awake by rats."
+
+At that the artist laughed out loud.
+
+"Rats?" he repeated. "Rats? My dear old woman, no rats come to such a
+poor house as this where not the smallest crumb falls to the mats."
+
+Then he looked at the housekeeper and a dreadful suspicion filled his
+mind.
+
+"You have brought us home nothing to eat!" he said.
+
+"True, master," said the old woman sorrowfully.
+
+"You have brought us home a cat!" said the artist.
+
+"My master knows everything!" answered the housekeeper, bowing low.
+
+Then the artist jumped to his feet, and strode up and down the room,
+and pulled his hair, and it seemed to him that he would die of hunger
+and anger.
+
+"A cat? A cat?" he cried. "Have you gone mad? Here we are starving and
+you must bring home a goblin, a goblin to share the little we have,
+and perhaps to suck our blood at night! Yes! it will be fine to wake
+up in the dark and feel teeth at our throats and look into eyes as big
+as lanterns! But perhaps you are right! Perhaps we are so miserable it
+would be a good thing to have us die at once, and be carried over the
+ridgepoles in the jaws of a devil!"
+
+"But master, master, there are many good cats too!" cried the poor old
+woman. "Have you forgotten the little boy who drew all the pictures
+of cats on the screens of the deserted temple and then went to sleep
+in a closet and heard such a racket in the middle of the night? And
+in the morning when he awoke again he found the giant rat lying dead,
+master--the rat who had come to kill him! Who destroyed the rat, sir,
+tell me that? It was his own cats, there they sat on the screen as he
+had drawn them, but there was blood on their claws! And he became a
+great artist like yourself. Surely, there are many good cats, master."
+
+Then the old woman began to cry. The artist stopped and looked at her
+as the tears fell from her bright little black eyes and ran down the
+wrinkles in her cheeks. Why should he be angry? He had gone hungry
+before.
+
+"Well, well," he said, "sometimes it is good fortune to have even a
+devil in the household. It keeps other devils away. Now I suppose this
+cat of yours will wish to eat. Perhaps it may arrange for us to have
+some food in the house. Who knows? We can hardly be worse off than we
+are."
+
+The housekeeper bowed very low in gratitude.
+
+"There is not a kinder heart in the whole town than my master's," she
+said, and prepared to carry out the covered basket into the kitchen.
+
+But the artist stopped her. Like all artists he was curious.
+
+"Let us see the creature," he said, pretending he hardly cared whether
+he saw it or not.
+
+So the old woman put down the basket and opened the lid. Nothing
+happened for a moment. Then a round pretty white head came slowly above
+the bamboo, and two big yellow eyes looked about the room, and a little
+white paw appeared on the rim. Suddenly, without moving the basket at
+all, a little white cat jumped out on the mats, and stood there as a
+person might stand who hardly knew if she were welcome. Now that the
+cat was out of the basket, the artist saw that she had yellow and black
+spots on her sides, a little tail like a rabbit's, and that she did
+everything daintily.
+
+"Oh, a three-colored cat," said the artist. "Why didn't you say so from
+the beginning? They are very lucky, I understand."
+
+As soon as the little cat heard him speak so kindly, she walked over
+to him and bowed down her head as though she were saluting him, while
+the old woman clapped her hands for joy. The artist forgot that he was
+hungry. He had seen nothing so lovely as their cat for a long time.
+
+"She will have to have a name," he declared, sitting down again on the
+old matting while the cat stood sedately before him. "Let me see: she
+is like new snow dotted with gold pieces and lacquer; she is like a
+white flower on which butterflies of two kinds have alighted; she is
+like----"
+
+But here he stopped. For a sound like a teakettle crooning on the fire
+was filling his little room.
+
+"How contented!" sighed the artist. "This is better than rice." Then he
+said to the housekeeper, "We have been lonely, I see now."
+
+"May I humbly suggest," said the housekeeper, "that we call this cat
+Good Fortune?"
+
+Somehow the name reminded the artist of all his troubles.
+
+"Anything will do," he said, getting up and tightening his belt over
+his empty stomach, "but do take her to the kitchen now, out of the
+way." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the little cat
+rose, and walked away, softly and meekly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The First Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    I'm poor and I'm old
+    My hair has gone gray,
+    My robe is all patches,
+    My sash is not gay.
+
+    The fat God of Luck
+    Never enters our door,
+    And few visitors come
+    To drink tea any more.
+
+    Yet I hold my head high
+    As I walk through the town.
+    While I serve such a master
+    My heart's not bowed down!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next morning the artist found the cat curled up in a ball on his
+cushion.
+
+"Ah! the softest place, I see!" said he. Good Fortune immediately rose,
+and moving away, began to wash herself with the greatest thoroughness
+and dexterity. When the housekeeper came back from market and cooked
+the small meal, Good Fortune did not go near the stove, though her eyes
+wandered toward it now and then and her thistle-down whiskers quivered
+slightly with hunger. She happened to be present when the old woman
+brought in a low table and set it before her master. Next came a bowl
+of fish soup--goodness knows how the housekeeper must have wheedled to
+get that fish!--but Good Fortune made a point of keeping her eyes in
+the other direction.
+
+"One would say," said the artist, pleased by her behavior, "that she
+understood it is not polite to stare at people while they eat. She has
+been very properly brought up. From whom did you buy her?"
+
+"I bought her from a fisherman in the market," said the old woman. "She
+is the eldest daughter of his chief cat. You know a junk never puts out
+to sea without a cat to frighten away the water devils."
+
+"Pooh!" said the artist. "A cat doesn't frighten devils. They are kin.
+The sea demons spare a ship out of courtesy to the cat, not from fear
+of her."
+
+The old woman did not contradict. She knew her place better than that.
+Good Fortune continued to sit with her face to the wall.
+
+The artist took another sip or two of soup. Then he said to the
+housekeeper, "Please be kind enough to bring a bowl for Good Fortune
+when you bring my rice. She must be hungry."
+
+When the bowl came he called her politely. Having been properly
+invited, Good Fortune stopped looking at the other side of the room,
+and came to sit beside her master. She took care not to eat hurriedly
+and soil her white round chin. Although she must have been very hungry,
+she would eat only half her rice. It was as though she kept the rest
+for the next day, wishing to be no more of a burden than she could help.
+
+So the days went. Each morning the artist knelt quietly on a mat and
+painted beautiful little pictures that no one bought: some of warriors
+with two swords; some of lovely ladies doing up their long curtains
+of hair; some of the demons of the wind blowing out their cheeks; and
+some little laughable ones of rabbits running in the moonlight, or fat
+badgers beating on their stomachs like drums. While he worked, the old
+woman went to market with a few of their remaining pennies; she spent
+the rest of her time in cooking, washing, scrubbing, and darning to
+keep their threadbare house and their threadbare clothes together. Good
+Fortune, having found that she was unable to help either of them, sat
+quietly in the sun, ate as little as she could, and often spent hours
+with lowered head before the image of the Buddha on its low shelf.
+
+"She is praying to the Enlightened One," said the housekeeper in
+admiration.
+
+"She is catching flies," said the artist. "You would believe anything
+wonderful of your spotted cat." Perhaps he was a little ashamed to
+remember how seldom he prayed now when his heart felt so heavy.
+
+But one day he was forced to admit that Good Fortune was not like
+other cats. He was sitting in his especial room watching sparrows fly
+in and out of the hydrangea bushes outside, when he saw Good Fortune
+leap from a shadow and catch a bird. In a second the brown wings, the
+black-capped head, the legs like briers, the frightened eyes, were
+between her paws. The artist would have clapped his hands and tried to
+scare her away, but before he had time to make the least move, he saw
+Good Fortune hesitate and then slowly, slowly, lift first one white paw
+and then another from the sparrow. Unhurt, in a loud whir of wings, the
+bird flew away.
+
+"What mercy!" cried the artist, and the tears came into his eyes. Well
+he knew his cat must be hungry and well he knew what hunger felt like.
+"I am ashamed when I think that I called such a cat a goblin," he
+thought. "Why, she is more virtuous than a priest."
+
+It was just then, at that very moment, that the old housekeeper
+appeared, trying hard to hide her excitement.
+
+"Master!" she said as soon as she could find words. "Master! the head
+priest from the temple himself is here in the next room and wishes to
+see you. What, oh what, do you think his honor has come here for?"
+
+"The priest from the temple wishes to see me?" repeated the artist,
+hardly able to believe his ears, for the priest was a very important
+person, not one likely to spend his time in visiting poor artists whom
+nobody thought much of. When the housekeeper had nodded her head until
+it nearly fell off, the artist felt as excited as she did. But he
+forced himself to be calm.
+
+"Run! run!" he exclaimed. "Buy tea and cakes," and he pressed into
+the old woman's hands the last thing of value he owned--the vase
+which stood in the alcove of his room and always held a branch or
+spray of flowers. But even if his room must be bare after this, the
+artist did not hesitate: no guest could be turned away without proper
+entertainment. He was ashamed to think that he had kept the priest
+waiting for even a minute and had not seen him coming and welcomed him
+at the door. He hardly felt Good Fortune rub encouragingly against his
+ankles as he hurried off.
+
+In the next room the priest sat lost in meditation. The artist bowed
+low before him, drawing in his breath politely, and then waited to be
+noticed. It seemed to him a century before the priest lifted his head
+and the far-off look went out of his eyes. Then the artist bowed again
+and said that his house was honored forever by so holy a presence.
+
+The priest wasted no time in coming to the point.
+
+"We desire," said he, "a painting of the death of our lord Buddha for
+the temple. There was some discussion as to the artist, so we put
+slips of paper, each marked with a name, before the central image in
+the great hall, and in the morning all the slips had blown away but
+yours. So we knew Buddha's will in the matter. Hearing something of
+your circumstances, I have brought a first payment with me so that you
+may relieve your mind of worry while at your work. Only a clear pool
+has beautiful reflections. If the work is successful as we hope, your
+fortune is made, for what the temple approves becomes the fashion in
+the town." With that the priest drew a heavy purse from his belt.
+
+The artist never remembered how he thanked the priest, or served him
+the ceremonial tea, or bowed him to his narrow gate. Here at last was
+a chance for fame and fortune at his hand. He felt that this might be
+all a dream. Why had the Buddha chosen him? He had been too sad to
+pray often and the housekeeper too busy--could it be that Buddha would
+listen to the prayers of a little spotted cat? He was afraid that he
+would wake up and find that the whole thing was an apparition and that
+the purse was filled with withered leaves. Perhaps he never would have
+come to himself if he had not been roused by a very curious noise.
+
+It was a double kind of noise. It was not like any noise exactly that
+the artist had ever heard. The artist, who was always curious, went
+into the kitchen to see what could be making the sound--and there sure
+enough were the housekeeper and Good Fortune, and one was crying for
+joy and one was purring for joy, and it would have been hard to have
+said which was making more noise. At that the artist had to laugh
+out loud, but it was not his old sad sort of laugh, this was like a
+boy's--and he took them both into his arms. Then there were three
+sounds of joy in the poor old kitchen.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Second Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    Now let me laugh and let me cry
+    With happiness, to know at last
+    I'll see him famous e'er I die
+    With all his poverty in the past!
+    I'll see the sand of the garden walk
+    Marked with the footsteps of the great,
+    And noblemen shall stand and talk
+    At ease about my master's gate!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Early the next morning, before the sun was up, the housekeeper rose
+and cleaned the house. She swept and scrubbed until the mats looked
+like worn silver and the wood shone like pale gold. Then she hurried
+to market and purchased a spray of flowers to put in the vase which
+she had of course bought back the night before with the first money
+from the priest's purse. In the meantime the artist dressed himself
+carefully in his holiday clothes, combed his hair until it shone like
+lacquer, and then went to pray before the shelf of the Buddha. There
+sat Good Fortune already, looking very earnest, but she moved over the
+moment she saw her master. Together they sat before the image, the
+artist raising his hands and striking them softly from time to time to
+call attention to his prayers. Then with a final low bow he went into
+the next room and sat crosslegged on his mat. He had never felt more
+excited and happy in his life.
+
+To-day he was to begin his painting of the death of Buddha to be
+hung in the village temple and seen perhaps by the children of his
+children's children. The honor of it almost overcame him. But he sat
+upright and expressionless, looking before him like a samurai knight
+receiving the instructions of his master. There was no roll of silk
+near him, no cakes of ink with raised patterns of flowers on their
+tops, no beautiful brushes, nor jar of fresh spring water. He must
+strive to understand the Buddha before he could paint him.
+
+First he thought of the Buddha as Siddhartha, the young Indian prince.
+And the artist imagined that his poor small room was a great chamber
+and that there were columns of gilded wood holding up a high ceiling
+above him. He imagined that he heard water falling from perfumed
+fountains near by. He imagined that young warriors stood grouped around
+him, gay and witty boys listening with him to a girl playing on a long
+instrument shaped like a peacock with a tail of peacock feathers. He
+imagined that his poor hydrangeas were a forest of fruit trees and
+palms leading down to pools filled with pink and white lotuses, and
+that the sparrows he knew so well were white swans flying across the
+sky.
+
+When the horse of a passing farmer whinnied, he thought he heard war
+horses neighing in their stables and the trumpeting of an elephant,
+and that soon he would go out to compete with the other princes for
+the hand of his bride, drawing the bow no other man could draw, riding
+the horse no other man could ride, striking two trees through with his
+sword where the others hewed down but one, and so winning his princess,
+Yosadhara, amid the applause of all the world.
+
+Even in that moment of triumph, the artist knew that Siddhartha felt no
+shadow of ill will toward his rivals. He was all fire and gentleness.
+A smile curved his lips. He held his head high like a stag walking in
+a dewy meadow. The artist looked about among his imaginary companions.
+All were young, all were beautiful. They had but to ask a boon and
+Siddhartha's heart was reaching out to grant it before the words could
+be spoken. The swans flew over his gardens and feared no arrow. The
+deer stared unafraid from thickets of flowers.
+
+The artist sat in his poor worn clothes, on his thin cushion and felt
+silks against his skin. Heavy earrings weighed down his ears. A rope
+of pearls and emeralds swung at his throat. When his old housekeeper
+brought in his simple midday meal, he imagined that a train of servants
+had entered, carrying golden dishes heaped with the rarest food. When
+Good Fortune came in, cautiously putting one paw before the other, he
+imagined that a dancing girl had come to entertain him, walking in
+golden sandals.
+
+"Welcome, thrice welcome!" he cried to her. But apparently Good Fortune
+had thought the room was empty, for she nearly jumped out of her skin
+when she heard him speak, and ran away with her white button of a tail
+in the air.
+
+"How wrong of you to disturb the master!" scolded the housekeeper. But
+the artist was not disturbed. He was still Prince Siddhartha and he was
+still wondering if all the world could be as happy as those who lived
+within the vine-covered walls of the palace the king his father had
+given him.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The second day began like the first. The housekeeper rose before dawn
+and although there was not a smudge of dirt or a speck of dust anywhere
+in the house, she washed and swept and rubbed and polished as before.
+Then she hurried to the market early to buy a new spray of flowers. The
+artist got up early, too, and made himself as worthy as possible of
+reflecting upon the Buddha. And once more when he went to pray, there
+was Good Fortune, shining like a narcissus, and gold as a narcissus'
+heart, and black as a beetle on a narcissus petal, sitting quietly
+before the shelf where sat the household image of the Buddha. No sooner
+did she see the artist than she jumped to her feet, lowered her head
+as though she were bowing, and moved over to make room for him. They
+meditated as before, the artist occasionally striking his hands softly,
+and the cat sitting very still and proper with her paws side by side.
+
+Then the artist went into his room beside the hydrangeas. To-day he
+reflected upon the renunciation of Siddhartha. Again he was the prince,
+but now he ordered his chariot and for the first time drove unannounced
+through the city. He saw an old man, and a man sick with fever, and a
+dead man. He looked at his bracelets--but gold could do no good to such
+as these. He, the prince of the land, was at last helpless to help.
+
+The head of the artist hung heavy on his breast. He thought he smelled
+a garland of flowers but the sweetness sickened him. They brought word
+that a son had been born to him, but he only thought how sad life would
+be for the child. When the housekeeper came with rice, he sent her away
+without tasting it, and when Good Fortune wandered in with big watchful
+eyes, he told her that he was in no mood for entertainment. Evening
+drew closer but still the artist did not stir. The housekeeper looked
+in but went away again. Good Fortune mewed anxiously, but the artist
+did not hear her.
+
+For now the artist imagined that Prince Siddhartha had secretly sent
+for his chariot driver and Kanthaka, his white horse. He had gazed long
+at his sleeping wife and the little baby she held in her arms. Now he
+was in the darkness of his garden; now he rode quietly through the
+sleeping city; now he was galloping down the long roads that shone pale
+and light in the darkness; and now he was in the forest and had come to
+the end of his father's kingdom. Siddhartha has cut off his long hair.
+He has taken off his princely garments. He has hung his sword to white
+Kanthaka's saddle. Let Channa take them back to the palace. It is not
+with them that he can save the world from its suffering.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+So intensely had the artist lived through the pain of the prince in
+his hour of giving up all the beautiful world that he knew, that next
+morning he was very, very tired. But when he heard the housekeeper
+polishing and rubbing and sweeping and scrubbing again, he too rose and
+dressed in his poor best and sat beside Good Fortune praying before the
+image of the Buddha.
+
+Then he went to the room that overlooked the hydrangea bushes and the
+sparrows and again he sat on his mat. Again he imagined that he was
+Siddhartha. But now he imagined that for years he had wandered on
+foot, begging for his food and seeking wisdom. At last he sat in a
+forest under a Bo Tree and the devils came and tempted him with sights
+terrible and sights beautiful. Just before dawn it seemed to him that
+a great wisdom came to him and he understood why people suffer and
+also how they can in other lives escape their sufferings. With this
+knowledge he became the Enlightened One, the Buddha.
+
+Now the artist felt a great peace come over him, and a love for all
+the world that flowed out even to the smallest grains of sand on the
+furthest beaches. As he had felt for his wife and little son in his
+imaginings, he now felt for everything that lived and moved, and even
+for the trees and mosses, the rocks and stones and the waves, which
+some day he believed would in their turn be men and suffer and be happy
+as men are.
+
+When the housekeeper and Good Fortune came with his food he thought his
+first disciples had come to him, and he taught them of the Way they
+should follow. He felt himself growing old in teaching and carrying
+happiness through the land. When he was eighty, he knew he was near
+death, and he saw the skies open and all the Hindu gods of the heavens,
+and of the trees and the mountains came to bid him farewell, and his
+disciples, and the animals of the earth.
+
+"But where is the cat?" thought the artist to himself, for even in his
+vision he remembered that in none of the paintings he had ever seen of
+the death of Buddha, was a cat represented among the other animals.
+
+"Ah, the cat refused homage to Buddha," he remembered, "and so by her
+own independent act, only the cat has the doors of Paradise closed in
+her face."
+
+Thinking of little Good Fortune, the artist felt a sense of sadness
+before he submerged himself again into the great pool of the peace of
+Buddha. But, poor man, he was tired to death. He had tried to live a
+whole marvelous life in three days in his mind. Yet now at least he
+understood that the Buddha he painted must have the look of one who
+has been gently brought up and unquestioningly obeyed (that he learned
+from the first day): and he must have the look of one who has suffered
+greatly and sacrificed himself (that he learned from the second day);
+and he must have the look of one who has found peace and given it to
+others (that he learned on the last day).
+
+So, knowing at last how the Buddha must look, the artist fell asleep
+and slept for twenty-four hours as though he were dead, while the
+housekeeper held her breath and the little cat walked on the tips of
+her white paws. At the end of twenty-four hours, the artist awoke, and
+calling hastily for brushes, ink, spring water, and a great roll of
+silk, he drew at one end the figure of the great Buddha reclining upon
+a couch, his face full of peace. The artist worked as though he saw the
+whole scene before his eyes. It had taken him three days to know how
+the Buddha should look, but it took him less than three hours to paint
+him to the last fold of his garments, while the housekeeper and Good
+Fortune looked on with the greatest respect and admiration.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Third Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    Hush, Broom! be silent as a spider at your tasks.
+    Pot! boil softly, a poor old woman asks.
+    Birds, sing softly! Winds, go slowly! Noises of the street,
+    Halt in awe and be ashamed to near my master's feet!
+    Holy thoughts are in his mind, heavenly desire,
+    While I boil his chestnuts, on my little fire.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the following days the artist painted the various gods of the earth
+and sky and the disciples who came to say farewell to the Buddha.
+Sometimes the painting came easy, sometimes it came hard; sometimes the
+artist was pleased with what he had done, sometimes he was disgusted.
+He would have grown very thin if the old woman hadn't coaxed him early
+and late, now with a little bowl of soup, now with a hot dumpling. Good
+Fortune went softly about the house, quivering with excitement. She,
+too, had plenty to eat these days. Her coat shone like silk. Her little
+whiskers glistened. Whenever the housekeeper's back was turned she
+darted in to watch the artist and his mysterious paints and brushes.
+
+"It worries me, sir," said the old housekeeper when she found the cat
+tucked behind the artist's sleeve for the twentieth time that day. "She
+doesn't seem like a cat. She doesn't try to play with the brushes, that
+I could understand. At night all the things come back to me that you
+said when I brought her home in the bamboo basket. If she should turn
+out bad and hurt your picture, I should not wish to live."
+
+The artist shook his head. A new idea had come to him and he was too
+busy to talk.
+
+"Good Fortune will do no harm," he murmured before he forgot about
+them all, the old woman, the little cat, and even his own hand that
+held the brushes.
+
+"I hope so, indeed," said the housekeeper anxiously. She picked up Good
+Fortune, who now wore a flowered bib on a scarlet silk cord about her
+neck, and looked like a cat of importance. It was at least half an hour
+before Good Fortune was able to get out of the kitchen. She found her
+master still lost in contemplation, and sat behind him like a light
+spot in his shadow. The artist, having finished gods and men, was about
+to draw the animals who had come to bid farewell to the Buddha before
+he died. He was considering which animal ought to come first--perhaps
+the great white elephant which is the largest of beasts, and a symbol
+of the Buddha; perhaps the horse that served him; or the lion, since
+his followers sometimes called him the lion of his race. Then the
+artist thought of how the Buddha loved humble things and he remembered
+a story.
+
+Once the Buddha was sitting in contemplation under a tree screened
+by its leaves from the fierce sunshine. As he sat, hour after hour,
+the shadow of the tree moved gradually from him and left him with the
+sunlight like fire beating down on his shaved head. The Buddha, who was
+considering great matters, never noticed, but the snails saw and were
+anxious lest harm should come to the master. They crawled from their
+cool shadows, and assembled in a damp crown upon his head, and guarded
+him with their own bodies until the sun sank and withdrew its rays.
+
+The artist thought: "The snail was the first creature to sacrifice
+himself for the Buddha. It is fitting he should be shown first in the
+painting."
+
+So, after thinking about the snails he had seen on walks, their
+round shell houses, and their little horns, their bodies like some
+pale-colored wet leaf, and their shy, well-meaning lives--he dipped a
+brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a snail.
+
+Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow to look at it. Her
+whiskers bristled and she put up one paw as though to pat it, and then
+looked at the artist.
+
+"I am only playing, master," she seemed to say, "but that is a very
+snail-like snail."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Next the artist sat on his mat and considered the elephant. He thought
+of his great size and strength and of his wisdom. He had never seen
+an elephant himself, but he had seen pictures of them painted long
+ago by Chinese artists, and now he thought of a large white animal,
+very majestic, with small kind eyes, and long ears lined with pink. He
+remembered that the elephant was very sacred, having been a symbol of
+royalty in India. He thought of how Buddha's mother had dreamed of an
+elephant before her baby was born.
+
+Then he thought of stranger things. For before Buddha came to earth
+as Prince Siddhartha, he came, his followers believe, in all sorts
+of forms, always practicing mercy and teaching those around him. The
+artist thought of one tale of how the Buddha had been born as a great
+elephant living on a range of mountains overlooking a desert. A lake
+starred with lotuses furnished his drink, and trees bent over him with
+their branches heavy with fruit. But one day from his high meadows he
+saw in the desert a large group of men. They moved slowly. Often one
+fell and the others stopped to lift him once more to his feet. A faint
+sound of wailing and despair reached his ears. The great elephant was
+filled with pity. He went out into the burning sands of the desert to
+meet them.
+
+To the travelers he must have seemed one more terrible apparition, but
+he spoke to them kindly in a human voice. They told him they were
+fugitives driven out by a king to die in the wilderness. Already many
+had fallen who would not rise again.
+
+The elephant looked at them. They were weak. Without food and water
+they could never cross the mountains to the fertile safe lands that
+lay beyond. He could direct them to his lake but they were not strong
+enough to gather fruit in quantities. They must have sustaining food
+immediately.
+
+"Have courage," he said to them, "in that direction you will find a
+lake of the clearest water (alas! his own dear drowsy lake) and a
+little beyond there is a cliff at the foot of which you will find the
+body of an elephant who has recently fallen. Eat his flesh and you will
+have strength to reach the land beyond the mountains."
+
+Then he saluted them and returned across the burning sands. Long before
+their feeble march had brought them to the lake and the cliff he had
+thrown himself into the abyss and had fallen, shining like a great moon
+sinking among clouds, and the spirits of the trees had thrown their
+flowers upon his body.
+
+So the artist thought for a long time about the elephant's sagacity and
+dignity and kindness. Then he dipped a brush into spring water, touched
+it with ink and drew an elephant.
+
+No sooner was the elephant drawn than Good Fortune came out of the
+artist's shadow and gazed round-eyed at the great creature standing
+upon the white silk. Then she looked at the artist. "I do not know what
+this being may be, master," she seemed to say, "but surely I am filled
+with awe from my whiskers to my tail."
+
+Then again the artist sat on his mat and thought. This time he thought
+about horses. Although he had never ridden, he had often watched
+horses and admired their noble bearing, their shining eyes, and curved
+necks. He liked the way they carried their tails like banners, and even
+in battle stepped carefully so as not to injure any one who had fallen.
+He thought of Siddhartha's own horse Kanthaka, white as snow, with a
+harness studded with jewels. He thought of how gentle and wild he was,
+how he had raced the horses of the other princes and beaten them when
+the prince had won the princess Yosadhara. Then he imagined Kanthaka
+returning without his master to the palace, his beautiful head hanging
+low, and Siddhartha's apparel bound to his saddle.
+
+Then the artist remembered the story of how once the spirit of Buddha
+himself had been born in the form of a horse, small, but of such fiery
+spirit that he became the war steed of the King of Benares. Seven kings
+came to conquer his master and camped about his city. Then the chief
+knight of the besieged army was given the king's war horse to ride
+and, attacking each camp suddenly, managed to bring back as prisoners,
+one by one, six kings. In capturing the sixth king the horse was badly
+wounded. So the knight unloosened its mail to arm another horse for the
+seventh and last battle.
+
+But the war horse found a voice.
+
+"Our work will be undone," he cried. "Another horse cannot surprise the
+camp. Set me, sir, upon my feet, arm me once more. I will finish what I
+have begun!"
+
+Weak with loss of blood, he charged the seventh camp like a falcon
+striking down its prey, and the seventh king was captured. The King of
+Benares came rejoicing to meet them at the royal gate.
+
+"Great king," said the war horse, "pardon your prisoners!" And then,
+before the servants could take off his armor, he fell dead in the
+moment of victory at his master's feet.
+
+So after long considering the courage and nobility of horses, the
+artist dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a
+horse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+No sooner was the horse drawn than Good Fortune came out of the
+artist's shadow and regarded the picture for a long time. She looked at
+the artist with admiration.
+
+"If a fly should light upon your horse, master," she seemed to say,
+"surely it would stamp and toss its head."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Fourth Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    My master sits.
+      All day he thinks.
+    He scarcely sees
+      The tea he drinks.
+
+    He does not know
+      That I am I.
+    He does not see
+      Our cat pass by.
+
+    And yet our love
+      Has its share, too,
+    In all the things
+      His two hands do.
+
+    The food I cook
+      In humbleness
+    Helps him a little
+      Toward success.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next day the artist again closed himself alone in the room
+overlooking the hydrangea bushes. Sitting on his mat, he decided that
+above the white horse's head a swan should be flying. He thought of the
+beauty of swans and the great beating of their wings, and of how they
+follow their kings on mighty flights along the roads of the air. He
+thought of how lightly they float in water like white lotuses.
+
+Then he remembered a story from the boyhood of Prince Siddhartha who
+was one day to become the Buddha. He was walking in the pleasure garden
+which his father had given him, watching swans fly over his head toward
+the Himalayas. Suddenly he heard the hiss of an arrow, and something
+swifter and more cruel than any bird drove past him through the air,
+and brought a wounded swan down at his feet. The young prince ran to
+the great bird and drew out the arrow. He tried the point against his
+own arm to find what this pain felt like which the bird had suffered.
+Then, as he was binding up the wound, attendants came to claim the
+spoil of a prince who was his cousin.
+
+Siddhartha answered quietly: "My cousin attempted only to destroy the
+swan, I claim it since I have attempted to save it. Let the councilors
+of the king decide between us."
+
+So the quarrel of the princes was brought before the royal council and
+the swan was given to the boy who was to be the Buddha.
+
+So having reflected upon the dreamlike beauty of swans, the artist
+dipped his brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a swan.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+No sooner was the swan drawn than Good Fortune came out of the artist's
+shadow and looked at it well and long. Then she turned politely to the
+artist.
+
+"There is wind under those wings, sir," she seemed to say. But there
+was just a hint in her manner to suggest that she thought his time
+might be better employed than in drawing birds.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The artist took food, and wandered for a few minutes in his little
+garden to refresh himself with the touch of the sun and the sound of
+the wind. He returned to his study by the hydrangeas and was about to
+think once more, when the housekeeper appeared at the door and bowed
+deeply.
+
+"My master will weary himself into a fever," she said, politely but
+obstinately. "You have seen Buddha and gods and horses, and that
+elephant curiosity, and snails and swans and--goodness only knows what
+else, all in a few days! It is more than flesh can bear! Your honored
+forehead looks like a scrubbing board and your eyes like candles. Now
+our neighbor has just sent his servant to invite you to take tea with
+him and I have said that you would be there directly."
+
+Having spoken so firmly she stood leaning forward with her hands on her
+knees, the picture of meekness.
+
+"You may argue with a stone Jizo by the roadside, but you waste your
+breath if you argue with a woman!" cried the artist. He took a silver
+piece out of the priest's purse and gave it to her.
+
+"Go, buy yourself some fine new material for a dress," he said. "It is
+a long time since you had anything pretty."
+
+"A thousand thanks to your honor!" cried the housekeeper, much pleased,
+"and I will shut up Good Fortune in the bamboo basket while we are out
+of the house. You would think the picture was sugar painted on cream to
+watch her. I am afraid to leave her alone with it."
+
+So it was not until the next morning that the artist was allowed to
+meditate in peace on the nature of buffalo. He thought how ugly they
+are, and how their horns curve like heavy moons on their foreheads. He
+thought how strong they are, and yet how willing to labor all day for
+their masters. He thought how fierce they are when attacked even by
+tigers, yet the village children ride on their backs as safe as birds
+on a twig.
+
+The spirit of Buddha himself had not been too proud to be born in
+the body of a buffalo. There were many stories of those days but the
+one that the artist remembered best told of how the holy buffalo had
+belonged to a poor man. One day he spoke to his master in a human
+voice, and said, "Lo, master, you are poor. I would willingly do
+something to help you. Go to the villagers and tell them that you have
+an animal here who can pull a hundred carts loaded with stones. They
+will bet that this is impossible and you will win a fortune."
+
+But when the villagers had fastened the carts together and loaded them
+with heavy stones, and the great beast was harnessed to the first cart,
+the owner behaved after the manner of common drivers, brandishing his
+goad and cursing his animal to show off before the others. The buffalo
+would not move so much as an inch.
+
+His owner, who had been poor before, was a good deal poorer after that.
+But one evening the buffalo said to him again:
+
+"Why did you threaten me? Why did you curse me? Go to the villagers and
+bet again, twice as much this time. But treat me well."
+
+Again the heavy carts were yoked together, again the villagers
+gathered, snickering behind their hands. But this time the poor man
+bathed his buffalo, and fed it sweet grain, and put a garland of
+flowers about its neck. When the creature was fastened to the first of
+the hundred carts, his master stroked him and cried:
+
+"Forward, my beauty! On! on! my treasure!" and the buffalo strained
+forward and pulled and stretched his muscles until they nearly cracked,
+and slowly, surely, the hundred carts moved forward.
+
+Now when the artist had considered the honesty and self-respect of the
+buffalo, he dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink and
+drew a buffalo.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+No sooner was the buffalo drawn than Good Fortune came out of the
+artist's shadow and regarded it with the air of one who is trying to
+hide a certain dissatisfaction. Then she looked at the artist.
+
+"Truly a buffalo!" she seemed to say, but something about the creature,
+perhaps its few hairs, must have tickled her sense of humor, for all at
+once she giggled. Quickly she lifted one little white paw, and broke
+into a series of polite sneezes.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It may be that the artist was a little annoyed with Good Fortune, for,
+hardly knowing it himself, he had come to count on her praise. Yet it
+may have been pure chance which made him reflect next on dogs.
+
+He thought of them as puppies, balls of down playing in the snow, with
+round black eyes and moist black muzzles. He thought of them as grown
+up, following their masters with lean strides or guarding lonely farms.
+He almost felt their warm tongues licking his hand, or saw them prance
+and roll to catch his eye.
+
+"How faithful!" he thought, and tried to remember some tale of the
+spirit of Buddha in the form of a dog. But either he had forgotten it,
+or there was no such story. So he called to the housekeeper.
+
+The old woman came in and bowed deeply to her master.
+
+"Do sit down," said the artist, "and tell me any story about dogs that
+may happen to come into your head."
+
+The old woman brought out a handkerchief and wiped her forehead. Then
+she sat down and bowed.
+
+"In my village, sir," she began, "people say there once stood a ruined
+temple. After the priests left it, goblins and demons lived there.
+Every year they demanded a sacrifice of a maiden from the town, or
+they swore they would destroy every one. So on a certain day each
+year a girl was put into a basket and taken into the enclosure of the
+temple. She was never seen again. But at last the lot fell to a little
+girl who owned a dog named Shippeitaro. All the village put on white
+for mourning. All day the sound of weeping was heard in the street.
+But before evening a stranger came into the town. He was a wandering
+soldier. The night before he had slept in a ruined temple."
+
+"The temple of the goblins?" asked the artist.
+
+"Yes, master," said the old woman, "it was the same temple. The
+soldier had been wakened in the night by a great racket. A voice over
+his head was saying, 'But never let Shippeitaro know--Shippeitaro would
+ruin everything.'
+
+"When the soldier told his story, Shippeitaro became greatly excited.
+He ran to the basket, wagging his tail, and clawed at its side.
+
+"'Let him be taken to the temple in place of his mistress,' said the
+soldier, and Shippeitaro leaped of his own free will into the basket
+and was carried through the gathering darkness to the temple courtyard.
+Then the bearers hurried away, but the soldier hid himself and waited.
+
+"At midnight he heard the most terrible yowlings approaching. They were
+enough to freeze the blood cold in one's veins. He peered out and saw
+a troupe of goblins prying off the lid of the basket. But instead of
+a frightened girl, out jumped Shippeitaro and sprang at the leader's
+throat. The other goblins fled and they have never been seen or heard
+of since.
+
+"So the good dog Shippeitaro saved not only his mistress but all the
+village."
+
+The artist thanked the old woman for her story. Good Fortune, who had
+found a mat to sit on, had been listening as attentively as her master.
+
+"What form had these goblins?" asked the artist.
+
+"Cats," answered the housekeeper, almost in a whisper, hoping that Good
+Fortune would not hear. But Good Fortune did hear. With a sad look at
+the old woman she rose and walked out of the room.
+
+The artist, after reflecting upon the fidelity of dogs, dipped a brush
+in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a dog.
+
+Good Fortune did not come back all day to look at it.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Fifth Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    Dear pussy, you are white as milk,
+    Your mouth's a blossom, your coat's silk--
+    What most distinguished family tree
+    Produced so great a rarity?
+
+    Dear pussy, you are soft and sweet;
+    You are too holy to touch meat--
+    What most distinguished family tree
+    Produced so great a rarity?
+
+    Dear pussy, you must never think
+    I thought you kin to cats like ink--
+    For goblin beasts could never be
+    Produced by such a family tree!
+    By such a lovely family tree!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next day when the artist seated himself upon his mat there was no
+Good Fortune sitting quiet near by but discreetly out of the way. For
+a few minutes he could not help thinking of his little three-colored
+cat, but soon he was able to turn his mind to deer. He must paint the
+animals who came to bid farewell to the Buddha, and he knew the cat was
+not among them.
+
+At first his thought was sad, but little by little he imagined a forest
+about him, dappled with light and shade, and he himself was a deer,
+setting small hoofs like ebony among the leaves, making no sound,
+listening with head raised high under its fairy branching of horns.
+A herd of deer followed him, the young males and the does and the
+fawns. He led them to secret pastures. His wide nostrils scented the
+wind for danger at each water hole before the others came to drink. If
+an enemy appeared, he guarded the flight of the herd. His sides were
+set with spots like jewels; his horns were more beautiful than temple
+candlesticks; his eyes were shy and wild.
+
+Slowly, while the artist wandered through imaginary forests as a deer,
+he felt growing within him the spirit of the Buddha, and he knew that
+he was the Banyan deer. Then it seemed to him that he and his herd
+had been driven into a great enclosure with another herd of deer whose
+leader was almost as beautiful as he. His heart beat like thunder
+between his ribs and a darkness came before his eyes, but his fear was
+for the sake of his herd. Then a king came into the enclosure to look
+at the deer.
+
+"The leaders are too beautiful to die," he said to his huntsman. "I
+grant them their lives. But of the others, see that you bring one each
+day to the palace for my banquets."
+
+Then the Banyan deer, who was filled with the spirit of Buddha, said to
+all the deer:
+
+"If we are hunted, many deer will be hurt each day. Let us meet this
+with fortitude and let a lot be drawn. Let the deer to whom it falls
+die voluntarily for the good of the herd."
+
+Now one day the lot fell to a doe whose fawn had not yet been born. It
+happened that she belonged to the other herd. She went to the leader
+and begged that she might live until the fawn was born.
+
+"We can make no exceptions," said he sadly.
+
+But when in despair she went to the Banyan deer, he sent her back
+comforted.
+
+"I will take your place," he said.
+
+The artist who was living the life of the deer in his mind, felt how
+his tenderness for the doe and the unborn fawn overcame his terror and
+led him gladly to the huntsman. But when the man saw that it was the
+great leader of the deer himself who had come, he sent for the king.
+
+"Did I not grant you your life?" asked the king, surprised.
+
+Then the Banyan deer found a human voice to answer.
+
+"O king!" he said, "the lot had fallen upon a doe with an unborn fawn.
+I could not ask another to take her place."
+
+Then the king, pleased by the deer's generosity, granted their lives
+both to him and to the doe.
+
+Still the Banyan deer was not satisfied, but pled for his people.
+
+"But the others, O king?" he asked.
+
+"They too shall live," said the king.
+
+"There are also the deer outside the palings," went on the Banyan deer.
+
+"They shall not be troubled," replied the king.
+
+"O king," continued the deer who had always lived in danger and pitied
+all creatures in the same case, "what shall other four-footed creatures
+do?"
+
+And the king was so moved by the deer's intended sacrifice that he too
+felt tenderly toward the world.
+
+"They shall have no reason for fear," he answered.
+
+Then the deer interceded for the birds and even for the fish, and when
+their safety was promised, he blessed the king with a great blessing.
+
+The artist, whose heart had seemed torn with timidity and gentle
+courage while he imagined himself the Banyan deer, quickly caught up a
+brush, dipped it in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a deer.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+No sooner was the deer drawn than Good Fortune came out unexpectedly
+from the artist's shadow (she had entered so quietly he had never
+noticed) and looked long at the picture.
+
+"Miaou," she said, sadly turning to the artist. "Is there no room for
+me among the other animals, master?" she seemed to ask.
+
+After that the artist drew many creatures. In each of them the spirit
+of the Buddha had at one time lived, or it had rendered service to him
+when he was a prince on earth. There were the woodpecker, and the hare
+who jumped into the frying pan of the beggar, and the lion who saved
+the young hawks, and the goose who gave his golden feathers to the old
+woman, and the wise little goat who outwitted the wolves, and many
+others.
+
+He drew a monkey, too, remembering how when the spirit of Buddha lived
+in an ape, a man, wandering in the jungle, had fallen into a deep pit.
+Then the great ape, having heard his groans, found a voice to reassure
+him. He climbed down into the pit, and fastening a stone to his back,
+tested his strength to make sure that he could climb out once more
+carrying the man. At last, having succeeded, the ape was so exhausted
+that he knew he must sleep or he would die. So he begged the man to
+watch by him while he slept. But as the man watched, evil thoughts came
+into his mind.
+
+"If I only had meat to eat I should easily be strong enough to find my
+way home," he thought.
+
+Forgetting gratitude, he picked up a large stone and struck the monkey
+on the head. But the blow of his weak arm had little strength. The
+ape started up and saw that it was the man whom he had saved who had
+tried to kill him. Surprise and sorrow filled him at such ingratitude.
+Nevertheless he led the man out of the forest to the edge of the fields
+and bade him farewell, showing compassion even to his betrayer.
+
+The artist remembered also how the monkeys had brought fruit to the
+Buddha when he sat in meditation in the forest and coaxed him to eat
+with their droll ways.
+
+So having meditated upon the monkey, the artist dipped a brush in
+spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a monkey.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And as the painting of each animal was finished Good Fortune came to
+look at it, and with each new drawing she seemed sadder and pulled with
+her little white paw at the sleeve of her master, looking up all the
+time into his face.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Sixth Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    She's sure to starve,
+      She _won't_ grow fat,
+    No dinner tempts
+      Our little cat!
+
+    All day I follow,
+      All day I cry,
+    "Come pussy, come pussy,"
+      As she goes by.
+
+    But she will starve,
+      She _won't_ grow fat,
+    It's always that painting
+      She's looking at.
+
+    All day I grieve
+      To hear her cry,
+    "Miaou, miaou,"
+      As I go by!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One day the artist sat on his mat and his mind wrestled with a more
+difficult problem than any before. He knew that the tiger had also
+come to bid farewell to the Buddha. How could that be? He thought of
+the fierceness and cruelty of tigers, he imagined them lying in the
+striped shadows of the jungle with their eyes burning like fires. Then
+he remembered how fond they were of their own cubs, and how they would
+face any odds if their cubs were in danger. He thought to himself:
+"It may be that this is the narrow pathway by which the tiger reaches
+to Buddha. It may be that there is a fierceness in love, and love in
+fierceness."
+
+Then he remembered a scene at the wedding of Siddhartha and Yosadhara.
+The young prince, who was to be the Buddha, had proved his skill and
+courage above all the other princes. In her golden palanquin sat the
+princess, her head covered with a veil of black and gold. As her father
+led the victor to her side, Siddhartha whispered, "By your veil I know
+that you remember how in another life you were once a tigress and I the
+tiger who won you in open fight."
+
+Having meditated upon this sinister but beautiful creature, capable of
+any burning sacrifice, the artist dipped his brush in spring water,
+touched it with ink, and drew a tiger.
+
+Good Fortune came out from his shadow. When she saw the tiger she
+trembled all over, from her thistle-down whiskers to her little tail,
+and she looked at the artist.
+
+"If the tiger can come to bid farewell to Buddha," she seemed to say,
+"surely the cat, who is little and often so gentle may come, O master?
+Surely, surely, you will next paint the cat among the animals who were
+blessed by the Holy One as he died?"
+
+The artist was much distressed.
+
+"Good Fortune," he said, gently taking her into his arms, "I would
+gladly paint the cat if I could. But all people know that cats, though
+lovely, are usually proud and self-satisfied. Alone among the animals,
+the cat refused to accept the teachings of Buddha. She alone, of all
+creatures, was not blessed by him. It is perhaps in grief that she too
+often consorts with goblins."
+
+Then Good Fortune laid her little round head against his breast and
+mewed and mewed like a crying child. He comforted her as well as he
+could and called for the housekeeper.
+
+"Buy her a fine fish all for herself," he said to the old woman. "And
+do not let her come here again until the picture is gone. She will
+break both our hearts."
+
+"Ah, I was afraid she meant to do the painting a harm," said the old
+woman anxiously. For she felt very responsible for having brought the
+cat home against her master's will, now that their fortunes hung on
+this painting for the temple.
+
+"It is not that," said the artist, and he returned to his thoughts.
+How tired, how worn he looked, and yet how beautiful! His picture was
+almost finished. He had imagined every life. There lay the great figure
+of the dying Buddha, royal, weary, compassionate. There assembled gods
+and men; and there were the animals--the scroll of silk seemed scarcely
+large enough to hold all those varied lives, all that gathering of
+devotion about that welling up of love.
+
+But something was excluded. From the kitchen he heard a faint mewing,
+and the housekeeper's voice urging Good Fortune to eat, in vain. The
+artist imagined how his little cat felt, so gentle, so sweet, but
+cursed forever. All the other animals might receive the Buddha's
+blessing and go to heaven, but the little cat heard the doors of
+Nirvana closed before her. Tears came to his eyes.
+
+"I cannot be so hard-hearted," he said. "If the priests wish to refuse
+the picture as inaccurate, let them do so. I can starve."
+
+He took up his best brush and touched it with ink, and last of all the
+animals--_drew a cat_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Then he called the housekeeper.
+
+"Let Good Fortune come in," he said. "Perhaps I have ruined us, but I
+can at least make her happy."
+
+In came Good Fortune, the moment that the door was slid open. She
+ran to the picture, and looked and looked, as though she could never
+look enough. Then she gazed at the artist with all her gratitude in
+her eyes. And then Good Fortune fell dead, too happy to live another
+minute.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Seventh Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    _I can't believe it--
+      (And how I've cried!)
+    But out of pure joy
+      Good Fortune died.
+
+    At the foot of her grave
+      Lie a flower and a shell,
+    In the peach tree near by
+      Hangs a little bell,
+
+    A little old bell
+      With a sweet cracked voice,
+    When a wind passes by
+      It sings, "Rejoice!"
+
+    "Rejoice!" it sings
+      Through the gardenside,
+    "For out of pure joy
+      Good Fortune died!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next morning, hearing that the picture was finished, the priest
+came to see it. After the first greetings, the artist led him in to
+look at the painting. The priest gazed long.
+
+"How it shines," he said softly.
+
+Then his face hardened.
+
+"But what is that animal whom you have painted last of all?" he asked.
+
+"It is a cat," said the painter, and his heart felt heavy with despair.
+
+"Do you not know," asked the priest sternly, "that the cat rebelled
+against our Lord Buddha, and did not receive his blessing and cannot
+enter heaven?"
+
+"Yes, I knew," said the artist.
+
+"Each person must suffer the consequences of his own acts," said the
+priest. "The cat must suffer from her obstinacy and you from yours.
+As one can never erase work once done, I will take the painting and
+to-morrow officially burn it. Some other artist's picture must hang in
+our temple."
+
+All day the housekeeper wept in the kitchen, for in bringing the little
+cat home she had, after all, ruined her master.
+
+All day the artist sat in the room beside the hydrangeas and thought.
+His painting was gone and with it the part of his life which he had
+put into it. To-morrow the priests would harshly burn it in the
+courtyard of the temple. Less than ever would any one come to him now.
+He was ruined and all his hopes gone. But he did not regret what he
+had done. For so many days had he lived in the thought of love and the
+examples of sacrifice, that it did not seem too hard to suffer for Good
+Fortune's great moment of happiness.
+
+All night he sat open-eyed with his thoughts in the darkness. The old
+woman dared not interrupt. He saw the pale light enter through the
+blinds and heard the dawn wind in the hydrangea bushes. An hour later,
+he heard the noise of people running toward his house. The priests of
+the temple surrounded him; the head priest pulled at his sleeve.
+
+"Come! Come!" they kept crying. "Come, sir! It is a miracle! Oh, the
+compassion of Buddha! Oh, the mercy of the Holy One!"
+
+Dazed and breathless, the artist followed them, seeing nothing of the
+village or the road to the temple. He heard happy voices in his ears,
+he caught a glimpse of his old housekeeper with her sash askew, and
+a crowd of open-mouthed neighbors. All together they poured into the
+temple. There hung his picture with incense and candles burning before
+it. It was as he had remembered it, but, no!----
+
+The artist sank down to his knees with a cry:
+
+"Oh, the Compassionate One!" For where the last animal had stood was
+now only white silk that seemed never to have felt the touch of ink;
+and the great Buddha, the Buddha whom he had painted reclining with
+hands folded upon his breast, had stretched out an arm in blessing, and
+under the holy hand knelt the figure of a tiny cat, with pretty white
+head bowed in happy adoration.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    _The Eighth Song of the Housekeeper_
+
+    This is too great a mystery
+      For me to comprehend:
+    The mercy of the Buddha
+      Has no end.
+    This is too beautiful a thing
+      To understand:
+    His garments touch the furthest
+      Grain of sand.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+                         ELIZABETH COATSWORTH
+
+
+As a poet and short story writer, Miss Coatsworth has made a name
+in the field of adult writing. For young readers, her stories have
+grown out of her travels all over the world. Each includes her love
+of strange people, her love of animals, and also, inevitably, some
+delightful bits of her poetry. In private life, she is Mrs. Henry
+Beston, of Hingham, Massachusetts.
+
+
+                           TOUTOU IN BONDAGE
+
+The story of a little dog lost in Morocco.
+
+Illustrated by Thomas Handforth.
+
+
+                            THE SUN'S DIARY
+
+A book of days for any year.
+
+Illustrated by Frank MacIntosh.
+
+
+                        THE BOY WITH THE PARROT
+
+An adventure story of Guatemala today.
+
+Illustrated by Wilfrid Bronson.
+
+
+                        THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN
+
+A story of New England. (The Little Library)
+
+
+              THE MACMILLAN COMPANY _Publishers New York_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+                      THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN
+
+
+To the discriminating the name of Elizabeth Coatsworth signed to a
+piece of writing brings always a premonitory thrill of pure delight.
+They know that they may confidently expect from her delicacy and
+sureness of touch combined with deep feeling, and an originality and
+freshness all too seldom found.
+
+This title is most decidedly a book for grown-ups to enjoy with
+children and read aloud to them.
+
+                    _Marcia Dalphin, The Saturday Review of Literature_
+
+
+It is a book that will give perennial joy to girls and boys on the road
+to the teens, to artists, poets, and "housekeepers," for the eight
+songs of the housekeeper who serves the painter, marking interludes
+of time in the progress of the painting, amidst the daily round of
+cooking, sweeping, and scrubbing, have the value of so many pictures
+while preserving the rhythm of the story throughout.
+
+It is the gift of Miss Coatsworth's story, as it is of Mr. Ward's noble
+presentations of the elephant, the horse, the bull, and the deer, to
+stir the spirit of beauty and tenderness toward all living things.
+
+                      _Anne Carroll Moore, The New York Herald-Tribune_
+
+
+There is no fair way to describe this story of a little cat who came
+to the house of a Japanese artist and brought good fortune, short of
+telling it; this I have done to people of all ages and sizes and every
+one has straightway made the book his own. I think if this cat had not
+gone to heaven in the end, there would have been rioting among the
+children of America. As for the wash drawings of Lynd Ward, they are
+the very spirits of the animals that come in one by one, for this is a
+series of legends worked into a moving plot.
+
+
+                                    _May Lamberton Becker, The Outlook_
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78393 ***