Theos-Talk Archives (January 2006 Message tt00070)

thank you dallas for this posting
i was much delighted to read all this interesting stories.

--- In theos-talk@yahoogroups.com, "W.Dallas TenBroeck"
<dalval14@e...> wrote:
>
> DO WE REMEMBER .DOC
> =======================
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 			
> DO WE REMEMBER?
> 
> 
> Mozart composed minuets before he was four years old. Beethoven gave
> successful concerts before he was eight, and published com positions
when he
> was ten. Chopin played in public before he was nine. Mendelssohn was
already
> famous at twelve, while Brahms ex cited attention from babyhood. Richard
> Strauss was a successful composer at six, while Samuel Wesley was an
> organist at three and composed an oratorio at eight.
> 
> * *         
> * *
> 
> Ruth Slenczynski—a child of eight years— was acclaimed in New York
City in
> 1933 for her piano recital of Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and
Chopin. She
> came simple and smiling upon the stage, but when she sat down to
play, her
> appearance was that of a mature woman in a child's body. One was
forced to
> realize that only the Soul present could so command the nature and body.
> 
> * *         
> * *
> 
> "Blind Tom" was a negro born in slavery on a Georgia plantation in
1849. Not
> only was he born blind but he was so nearly a congenital idiot that
it was
> almost impossible to teach him to talk or to perform the simplest tasks.
> 
> By the time he was ten years old he had been drilled into "tending door"
> —his sole accomplishment. In those days the kitchen was in a
separate cabin
> immediately back of the mansion-house dining room. Slaves would run
back and
> forth between kitchen and dining room at meal time and it was Blind
Tom's
> task to open the swinging door for them. One day a young lady guest
played
> some highly technical numbers just before lunch. After lunch eon the
company
> scattered for various amusements. It happened that the young lady re
turned
> to the deserted dining room for some forgotten article and was
astonished to
> hear the piano resounding with the music she had played an hour or two
> before. Peeping into the music room she beheld Blind Tom, oblivious
to all
> but the magic sounds his flying fingers were conjuring from the
instrument.
> Within a year Mr. Bethune, Tom's "owner," was exhibiting him to large
> audiences in New York City — to his own profit and to the world's
> incredulous admiration.
> 
> * * * *
> 
> Christian Heinrich Heinecken was born in Denmark in 1721. At ten
months of
> age he could converse as freely and intelligently as an adult. By
the time
> he was a year old he knew the Pentateuch practically by heart—knew
it not
> only in a memorial sense, but understood it as well as his elders
who read
> and told the Old Testament stories to him. By the end of his second
year he
> was as well versed in sacred history as those who taught him, had
decided
> opinions on the many moot theological questions of the time, and
could hold
> his own in discussion with the numerous learned divinity men who
sought him
> out for the sake of what they could learn from him. At three years
of age he
> was as much of a marvel in geography and in world history as the
greatest
> travelers and university professors. He was by this time proficient in
> German as well as Danish, and could talk well in French and Latin. His
> parents' home became a kind of place of pilgrimage to which men and
women of
> standing and repute from many distant places came with reverence and
respect
> to meet and consult with this phenomenal babe. The child died at a
little
> over four years of age.
> 
> * * * *
> 
> Horace Greeley, the famous American newspaper editor, was the third
child of
> parents who wrestled for a meager existence on a stony hillside Vermont
> farm. Horace was weak, sickly, and from the first uninterested in
the things
> that attract and amuse babies. That he learned to read before he
could talk
> in other than "baby language" is told by more than one biographer.
His own
> mother related that she observed before he was two years old how he
seemed
> fascinated to see his father reading from a paper. Overburdened with
family
> duties, it occurred to her to give him an old newspaper to play with
while
> she was absent from the room. Coming into the house one day she started
> toward the door of the room in which she had left Horace. Astonished
to hear
> a voice speaking as an adult might, and thinking some visitor must have
> entered during her absence, she paused by the door and looked in.
Horace was
> reading aloud from the sheet before him! No one had ever taught him
even his
> A B C's.
> 
> *
> * * *
> 
> William Henry West Betty was born in England in 1791. He appeared
on the
> stage at the age of eleven in adult parts, and at twelve he was playing
> Shakesperian roles in London to overcrowded houses. It is of record
that the
> English Parliament actually adjourned on one occasion so that its
members
> might attend a performance in which this precocious youngster played the
> role of Hamlet.
> 
> * * *
> *
> 
> Elmer J. Schoneberger, Jr., born at Los Angeles in 1929, at six
months of
> age could con verse plainly; at a year old he had learned the
alphabet; at
> three, he was able to talk with ease and understanding on such
subjects as
> "electricity, engineering, economics, history, aviation and sports."
> 
> * * *
> *
> 
> 
> A GREEK LESSON [Prologue to "Gorgo"].
> 
> 
> I stopped short; I flung down the book. "It is a lie," I cried
bitterly, "a
> cruel, hateful lie,"
> 
> I almost shouted, — and the whole class stared at me in amazement.
> 
> A strange outburst was that for the dingy, drowsy Greek-room of the
> little New England college. I was as much surprised as any; I stood
confused
> at myself. For then it was that I remembered.
> 
> The passage which I was translating seemed innocent enough—to
all the
> rest. We were reading at sight — the professor's particular hobby;
and he
> was exploiting upon us the Twelfth Oration of Lysias.
> 
> But I had been paying scant attention to what they were reading.
Greek
> was easy to me always, and the halting drone with which they turned the
> sweet Attic into their class-room jargon wearied my ears. And my
thoughts
> had drifted far away into I know not what regions of day-dreams, under a
> bright sky buttressed on purple hills, when I heard the incisive
voice of
> the professor:
> 
> "Leonard, you may read now, beginning with the seventy-eighth
section."
> It cut through the mists of cloud land like the flash of a searchlight.
> 
> I started to my feet, found the place and began:
> 
> "`And although he has been the author of all these and still other
> disasters and disgraces, both old and new, both small and great,
some dare
> to profess themselves his friends; al though it was not for the
people that
> Theramenes died, but because of his own villainy—'Then I choked and
stopped.
> Tears swam in my eyes, and a hot flash scalded my cheeks. For in that
> instant first I understood; and in that instant it seemed to me that
they
> all understood.
> 
> But the professor, rather mortified at my unwonted hesitation,
began to
> prompt:
> 
> "Go on, Leonard, — go on, it is not so hard— `and no less justly
would he
> have died under the democracy, which he twice enslaved' — why,
Leonard!".
> 
> "It is a lie," I burst forth. "A cruel, hateful lie." Those words
which
> he uttered so calmly had stung me like the lashes of a scourge, — so
> malignant, so artful, so utterly unjust. And the whole world had read
> them—this had been believed for centuries, with none to contradict!
> 
> "To say it when a man was dead !" I went on. "And Lysias! for
Lysias to
> say it!" I had quite forgotten the class; I saw only the foppish,
waspish
> little orator, declaiming before the people with studied passion and hot
> indignation well memorized. But the people had never accepted it
They knew
> me better. . .
> 
> "They would not listen to such as Lysias; they would make an
uproar and
> rise from the benches. How dared that alien accuse the best blood of
> Athens!" Yet I could scarcely have told you why I said it.
> 
> My classmates were too much astonished to laugh. The professor
laid down
> his book; mine I flung on the floor. My blood was boiling; my soul a
tumult.
> 
> "What does this mean, Leonard?" I heard the voice; I could not
clearly see
> the speaker.
> 
> "I will not read it—I will not read another line," I cried. .
> 
> For the past had opened like a darkness lightning-cleft; all in one
moment I
> felt the injustices of ages; the shame of an aeon of scorn—and they
asked me
> to read against my self the lying record. I would die again sooner
than read
> it. I could not realize that they did not comprehend.
> 
> It was not often that Professor Lalor was at a loss for words, but
there was
> a long pause before he spoke.
> 
> "Young man," he said slowly, "I always like my student s to manifest a
> living interest in what they read, and this trait I have especially
> commended in you heretofore. But there is measure, Leonard, in all
things,
> as the Greeks themselves have taught us; and this exceeds— this
certainly
> exceeds. One would fancy you contemporary authority." . .
> 
> Again I had choked, but anger gave me back my speech.
> 
> "Lysias an authority!" I exclaimed. "Lysias ! "
> 
> My sight had cleared. The class sat quiet, startled out of their
laughter;
> the professor looked pained and puzzled.
> 
> "There is a degree of truth in what you seem to imply," he said.
"It may
> be conceded that Lysias was somewhat lacking in the judicial
quality. And as
> to Theramenes, Aristotle has expressed a very different estimate of
him. Yet
> Lysias—"
> 
> "He was no better than a sycophant," I broke in.
> 
> "Go to your room, Leonard. You forget yourself." But the truth
was, I had
> remembered myself.
> After that they nicknamed me Theramenes: I was nicknamed after
myself,
> and none suspected.
> 
> 	
> =======================================
> 
> 
> 
> My sister was born and married abroad. On arrival in England she
and her
> husband set off to visit at an old manor house in Wiltshire.
> 
> On entering the lodge gates, my sister turned to her husband and
said,
> "Why, this is my old home," and to his surprise, she pointed out
landmarks
> on the way.
> 
> The experience was related at dinner, and the host, somewhat
incredulous,
> playfully said, "Perhaps you will discover the Priest's Hole !" It was
> mentioned in the history of the place that one existed in Tudor
times, but
> it had never been discovered.
> 
> After dinner the guests adjourned to the gallery to see some old
> pictures, and it was noticed my sister was missing. They found her
in a room
> nearby, counting the panels on the wall, and looking somewhat dreamy.
> Suddenly she exclaimed, "This is the one," and asked her husband to
press a
> leaf in the carving very hard as she could not manage it.
> 
> He did so, the panel moved stiffly, and a tiny room was revealed,
dusty
> with age, and empty save for a broken piece of pottery and a pallet,
which
> had evidently been used for a bed.
> 
> * * * *
> 
> The first year of little Jackie's life we called him our little
Chinaman,
> because his features—particularly his eyes—were Chinese. After his first
> year, he began to lose that Oriental look. But he was always
different from
> the other children—silent, he preferred to play alone, and would
play for
> hours with one object.
> 
> As he grew older, it was noticed that Jackie was the one who did
things.
> If he started a thing, he always finished it. Often we would hear
the others
> say, "Jackie can fix it!" And always Jackie fixed it.
> 
> It was when he was five years old that I made the boys each a pair of
> navy blue pants. Immediately, Jim tried his on. When I asked Jackie
if he
> wanted to put his on, he said, No— he would put them in his drawer
until I
> got his shirt made. "But Jackie," I said, "I just made you some shirts."
> 
> "I know," he answered, "but they are not the right kind."
> 
> "What is the right kind?"
> 
> "The right kind is long, like this," he said, and he measured with his
> little hand down to his knees.
> "But boys don't wear shirts like that!"
> 
> "I know. But they don't wear the right kind of shirts. I want you to
make
> mine black with lots of pretty colors on it."
> 
> "Daddy," said I, "doesn't wear that kind of shirt."
> 
> "No, Daddy doesn't wear the right kind of shirt, nor Ned Lane,
either."
> (Ned Lane is a friend of his father.)
> 
> I asked Jackie if he would wear this long black shirt with the pretty
> colors to school, and he said yes, he would; because it was the
right kind
> of shirt!
> 
> And then we say, we don't "remember."
> 
> * * *
> *
> 
> When children come to visit me, they love to dress up in my
clothes, and
> "play lady." One day, Betty May had spent an unusually long time in
my room,
> and finally came out in a long dress, with a scarf wound round her head.
> 
> She said, "Look, Grannie! This is the way we dressed when we were
> Indians."
> 
> "Oh, were you an Indian?" I queried innocently.
> 
> She looked at me with surprise in her eyes, and said, "Of course.
And you
> too, Grannie. Don't you remember? What is the name of that country
where we
> lived when we were Indians?"
> 
> I asked if it were India, maybe, but she said, no, that wasn't the right
> name.
> 
> Then I asked, "Were the babies Indians, too?"
> 
> Quickly she answered, "Oh, no. Not Jackie. Jackie was another kind
of man.
> Jackie looked like this" — and she drew herself up very straight and
folded
> her arms across her chest.
> 
> "How about Jim and Sue? Were they Indians ?"
> 
> She looked very serious for a minute, and then said, "I don't remember,
> Grannie."
> 
> Then someone came in, and we were never able to pick up the
thread again,
> until several weeks later when she told me, 
> 
> "Mother doesn't know all the things we know, Grannie."
> 
> "Why doesn't she, dear?" I said.
> 
> "Because, she hasn't been to our country."
> 
> "But how do you know, Betty May?" I asked.
> 
> The only answer I could get was, "You know, Grannie."
> 
> And then we say, we don't "remember."
> 
> * * *
> *
> 
> When Baby Carla was six weeks old, she saw her Uncle Hal for the
first
> time. A twinkle came in her eyes, she smiled, and put out her tongue
at him!
> Ever after, that was her sign of welcome to him, though sometimes she ex
> tended the greeting to others especially favored. 
> 
> Between her and Uncle Hal there seemed to be always some inner
secret bond
> of delight and companionship, so that just as soon as she began to say
> "Mama" and "Papa," she also began to use a name for Uncle Hal.
"Pak-kar,"
> she called him. 
> 
> Her parents were mystified. What strange freak made that word, like
nothing
> anyone had ever heard before? 
> 
> There was no variation in it at any time. It was always clear and
> distinct—unmistakable. Before the little one had reached the age of two,
> however, Uncle Hal died suddenly. Carla appeared to know nothing
about it,
> except that several times in the next few weeks, and very contrary
to her
> usual sunny awakening from sleep, she woke crying, as if her heart were
> broken. When her mother soothed her and asked her why she cried, she
said,
> "Pak-kar's gone !" She never again greeted anyone with little
tongue thrust
> out.
> 
> Two years after this, while Carla's mother was reading one of
Breasted's
> histories, she came to a chapter in which was discussed the similar
roots of
> words in old languages. Across the page sprang into her view this line,
> giving the ancient forms of our word, father: Greek Latin Teutonic
Sanscrit
> Tibetan pater pater vater pitar pakkar.
> 
> It was four years later when Carla's father brought home from the
library
> a book of travel on Tibet, in which was illustrated the Tibetan
greeting,
> first used by Carla at the age of six weeks!
> 
> * * * *
> 
>    
> Little Robert was the sunniest, happiest, most lovable little
four-year-old
> boy anyone ever knew! Not only was he cherished by all those in his
family,
> including aunts and uncles and cousins, but friends — even strangers
— found
> him "different" from other little ones, and with a strange power to
lighten
> their hearts. But, one day a terrible disease struck him swiftly, and he
> died.
> 
> Little Robert's parents knew about reincarnation, and their
sorrow was
> more bearable because they had also heard that when a child dies
under the
> age of seven years, the same Ego might reincarnate again in the same
family.
> Two years later, a little brother was born to them, so closely
resembling
> little Robert that they could not help giving the babe the same
name. As he
> grew, old familiar ways were recognized, and the two babes seemed
blended in
> this one. They began to speak of the first little Robert as "the
other one."
> 
> Meantime, some of the families of cousins had moved far away, and had
> never seen the second Robert. One day, when he was three years old,
one of
> these girl cousins came to the house on a surprise-visit. She
entered the
> room where the little fellow was playing on the floor with his
blocks, and
> stood quietly for a moment. Robert looked up at her, smiled
radiantly, flung
> out his arms and called, "Ong !"
> 
> This was the name the first Robert had given her—a name which had
never been
> used by anyone, save him!
> 
> 
> ---------------------------------------------------------
> 
> 
> The following undoubtedly true story was written by a commercial
> photographer of Minneapolis. She is the elder sister of little Anne,
and up
> to the time of the incident, neither she nor any of the family
believed in,
> or knew anything of, the doctrine of re-birth. The article appeared
in the
> American Magazine of July, 1915.
> 
> "Anne, my little half-sister, younger by fifteen years, was a queer
little
> mite from the beginning. She did not even look like any member of
the family
> we ever heard of, for she was dark almost to swarthiness, while the
rest of
> us were all fair, showing our Scotch Irish ancestry unmistakably.
> 
> "As soon as she could talk in connected sentences, she would tell
herself
> fairy stories, and just for the fun of the thing I would take down her
> murmurings with my pencil in my old diary. She was my especial
charge — my
> mother being a very busy woman—and I was
> very proud of her. These weavings of fancy were never of the usual
type that
> children's fairy tales take; for, in addition to the childish
imagination,
> there were bits of knowledge in them that a baby could not possibly have
> absorbed in any sort of way.
> 
> "Another remarkable thing about her was that everything she did she
> seemed to do through habit, and, in fact, such was her insistence,
although
> she was never able to ex plain what she meant by it. If you could
have seen
> the roystering air with which she would life her mug of milk when
she was
> only three and gulp it down at one quaffing, you would have shaken with
> laughter. This particularly embarrassed my mother and she reproved Anne
> repeatedly. The baby was a good little soul, and would seem to try
to obey,
> and then in an absent-minded moment would bring on another occasion for
> mortification. `I can't help it, mother,' she would say over and
over again,
> tears in her baby voice, `I've always done it that way!'
> 
> "So many were the small incidents of her `habits' of speech and
thought
> and her tricks of manner and memory that finally we ceased to think
anything
> about them, and she herself was quite unconscious that she was in
any way
> different from other children.
> 
> "One day when she was four years old she became very indignant with
Father
> about some matter and, as she sat curled up on the floor in front of us,
> announced her intention of going away forever.
> 
> "`Back to heaven where you came from?' inquired Father with mock
> seriousness. She shook her head.
> 
> "`I didn't come from heaven to you,' she asserted with that calm
> conviction to which we were quite accustomed now. `I went to the
moon first,
> but—you know about the moon, don't you? It used to have people on
it, but it
> got so hard that we had to go.'
> 
> "This promised to be a fairy tale, so I got my pencil and diary.
> 
> "`So,' my father led her on, `you came from the moon to us, did you?'
> 
> "`Oh, no,' she told him in casual fashion. `I have been here lots of
> times—sometimes I was a man and sometimes I was a woman!'
> 
> "She was so serene in her announcement that my father laughed
heartily,
> which enraged the child, for she particularly disliked being
ridiculed in
> any way.
> 
> "`I was! I was!' she maintained indignantly. `Once I went to
Canada when
> I was a man! I `member my name, even.'
> 
> "`Oh, pooh-pooh,' he scoffed, `little United States girls can't
be men
> in Canada! What was your name that you `member so well?'
> 
> "She considered a minute. `It was Lishus Faber,' she ventured, then
> repeated it with greater assurance, `that was it—Lishus Faber.' She
ran the
> sounds together so that this was all I could make of it—and the name so
> stands in my diary today; `Lishus Faber.'
> 
> "`And what did you do for a living, Lishus Faber, in those early
days?' My
> father then treated her with the mock solemnity befitting her
assurance and
> quieting her nervous little body.
> 
> `I was a soldier'—she granted the information triumphantly—'and I
took the
> gates!'
> 
> "That was all that is recorded there. Over and over again, I
remember, we
> tried to get her to explain what she meant by the odd phrase, but
she only
> repeated her words and grew indignant with us for not understanding. Her
> imagination stopped at explanations. We were living in a cultured
community,
> but al though I repeated the story to inquire about the phrase—as
one does
> tell stories of beloved children, you know—no one could do more than
> conjecture its meaning.
> 
> "Some one encouraged my really going further with the matter, and
for a year
> I studied all the histories of Canada I could lay my hands on for a
battle
> in which somebody `took the gates.' All to no purpose. Finally I was
> directed by a librarian to a `documentary' history, I suppose it
is—a funny
> old volume with the `s' like f' s, you know. This was over a year
afterward,
> when I had quite lost hope of running my phrase to earth. It was a
quaint
> old book, interestingly picturesque in many of its tales, but I
found one
> bit that put all others out of my mind. It was a brief account of
the taking
> of a little walled city by a small company of soldiers, a
distinguished feat
> of some sort, yet of no general importance. A young lieutenant with his
> small band—the phrase leaped to my eyes—'took the gates.' And the
name of
> the young lieutenant was `Aloysius Le Fêbre.'"
> 
> 
> ---------------------------------------------------
> 
> 
> It is told of one American gentleman, on his first visit to London, that
> while waiting in a lawyer's office to keep an appointment, he began
to have
> a sense of familiarity of the room steal over him. The feeling grew very
> strong, till finally he said to himself: "Well, if I ever have been here
> before, there is a certain knot-hole in the panel of that door over
> there—and if so, it is under that calendar hanging there!" He
walked over
> to the door and lifted the calendar. The knot-hole was there, as he
knew it
> would be.
> 
> 
> --------------------------------------------------------
> 
> 
> THE TURN OF THE WHEEL
> 
> He was the son of a ruler in Rajpootana. His father governed a
district,
> including several villages as well as his own small town, with
justice and
> wisdom, so that all were prosperous and happy. The ruler was called
a Rajah;
> he lived in a building made of stone, built on a hill that commanded the
> town. The son was born after the Rajah had been for many years
childless,
> and was the only child to whom the father's honors and power could
descend.
> He was named Rama after the great Avatar. From the time he was born and
> until he could speak, a strange look was always to be seen in his
baby eyes;
> a look that gazed at you without flinching, as if he had some design
on you;
> and yet at times it seemed to show that he was laughing at himself,
sorry,
> too; melancholy at times.
> 
> Rama grew up and delighted his father with his goodness and
strength of
> mind. The strange glance of his eye as a baby remained with him, so that
> while every one loved him, they all felt also a singular respect
that was
> sometimes awe. His studies were completed, and he began to take part
in the
> administration of the affairs of the old and now feeble rajah.
> 
> Rama felt a great need of being alone. Every day he retired to
his room,
> unattended, and on the fourteenth of each month spent the entire day
alone.
> He felt a weight upon his heart which did not come from this life.
He had
> had no sorrow, had lost no bright possession; his ambitions were all
> fulfilled. He longed to know what was before him yet to learn. This
was why
> he spent his time in self- searching and meditation. So, he came to find
> that his higher self spoke one language, and the personal self
another. He
> came to see that the personal self weighted him down with the chains of
> ignorance, and that his must be a search, not for possessions, but for
> knowledge, no matter where the search should take him. Then, one day, a
> vision passed before him of the poverty and the riches that might be
his, of
> huts and buildings of stone, as he went on his way to enlightenment. But
> after this, he was no longer troubled, no longer sorrowful; his mind
was at
> peace.
> 
> His old father died, and he carried on the government for many years,
> scattering blessings in every direction, until a rival rajah came and
> demanded all his possessions, showing a claim to them through a
forgotten
> branch of the family. Instead of rejecting the claim, which was just,
> instead of slaying the rival as he could have done, Rama resigned all,
> retired to the forest, and died, after a few years of austerity.
> 
> * * * *
> 
> The wheel of time rolled on and Rama was reborn in a town governed
by the
> Rajah who had once in a former life demanded Rama's possessions. But now
> Rama was poor, un known, an outcaste, a chandalah who swept up
garbage and
> hoped that Karma might help him. He knew not that he was Rama; he
only swept
> the garbage near the Rajah's palace.
> 
> A solemn audience was held by the Rajah with all the priests and the
> soothsayers present. Troubled by a dream of the night before, the
> superstitious ruler called them in to interpret, to state causes
learnedly,
> to prescribe scriptural palliative measures. He had dreamed that while
> walking in his garden, hearing from his treasurer an account of his
> increasing wealth, a huge stone building seemed suddenly to grow up
before
> him. As he stopped amazed, it toppled over and seemed to bury him
and his
> wealth. Three times repeated, this filled him with fear.
> 
> The astrologers retired and consulted their books. The remedy was
plain, one
> suggested. "Let the King give up a vast sum of money to morrow to
the first
> person he sees after waking up." This decision was accepted, and the pro
> poser of it intended to be on hand early so as
> to claim the money. The Rajah agreed to the direction of the stars, and
> retired for the night, full of his resolution to give immense gifts next
> day. No horrid dreams disturbed his sleep. The winking stars moved
over the
> vault of heaven, and of all the hosts the moon seemed to smile upon
the city
> as if she heard and knew all. 
> 
> The cold early morning, dark with promise of dawn, saw the
chandalah, — once
> Rama— sweeping up the garbage near the palace where inside the Rajah was
> just awaking. The last star in heaven seemed to halt as if anxious
that Rama
> should come in his sweeping to the side of the palace from which the
Rajah's
> window opened. Slowly the Rajah's waking senses returned, and as
they came a
> hideous memory of his dream flashed on him. Starting up from the mat on
> which he lay, he rose and seemed to think.
> 
> "What was I to do? Yes, give gifts. But it is not yet day. Still the
oracle
> said `immediately on awakening'."
> 
> As he hesitated, the poor garbage sweeper outside came more nearly
in front
> of his window. The setting star almost seemed to throw a beam
through the
> wall that struck and pushed him to the window. Flinging open the
shutter to
> get breath, he looked down, and there before him was the poor
chandalah with
> waistcloth and no turban, sweating with exertion,-hastening on with
the task
> that when finished would leave the great Rajah's grounds clean and
ready for
> their lord.
> 
> "Thank the gods," said the Rajah, "it is fate; a just decision; to
the poor
> and the pious should gifts be given."
> 
> At an early hour he gathered his ministers and priests together and
said— "I
> give gifts to the devas through the poor; I redeem my vow. Call the
> chandalah who early this morning swept the ground."
> 
> Rama was called and thought it was for prison or death. But the
Rajah amazed
> him with a gift of many thousands of rupees, and as the chandalah,
now rich,
> passed out, he thought he smelt a strange familiar odor and saw a
dazzling
> form flash by. "This," thought he, "is a deva."
> 
> The money made Rama rich. He established himself and invited Brahmins to
> teach others; he distributed alms, and one day he caused a huge
building of
> stone to be built with broken stone chains on its sides to represent how
> fate ruptured his chains. And later on a wise seer, a Brahmin of many
> austerities, looking into his life, told him briefly,
> "Next life thou art free. Thy name is Rama."
> 
> BRYAN KINNAVAN ( Adapted)
> 
> 
> ========================================
> 
> 
> Best wishes,
> 
> Dallas
>