| |
| | The toad beneath the harrow knows |
| Exactly where each tooth-point goes; |
| The butterfly upon the road |
| Preaches contentment to that toad. |
PAGETT, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith,— | |
| He spoke of the heat of India as “The Asian Solar Myth”; | |
| Came on a four months’ visit, to “study the East” in November, | |
| And I got him to make an agreement vowing to stay till September. | |
| |
| March came in with the köil. Pagett was cool and gay, | 5 |
| Called me a “bloated Brahmin,” talked of my “princely pay.” | |
| March went out with the roses. “Where is your heat?” said he. | |
| “Coming,” said I to Pagett. “Skittles!” said Pagett, M.P. | |
| |
| April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat,— | |
| Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat. | 10 |
| He grew speckled and lumpy—hammered, I grieve to say, | |
| Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. | |
| |
| May set in with a dust-storm,—Pagett went down with the sun. | |
| All the delights of the season tickled him one by one. | |
| Imprimis—ten days’ “liver”—due to his drinking beer; | 15 |
| Later, a dose of fever—slight, but he called it severe. | |
| |
| Dysent’ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat— 1 | |
| Lowered his portly person—made him yearn to depart. | |
| He didn’t call me a “Brahmin,” or “bloated,” or “overpaid,” | |
| But seemed to think it a wonder that any one ever stayed. | 20 |
| |
| July was a trifle unhealthy,—Pagett was ill with fear, | |
| Called it the “Cholera Morbus,” hinted that life was dear. | |
| He babbled of “Eastern exile,” and mentioned his home with tears; | |
| But I hadn’t seen my children for close upon seven years. | |
| |
| We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, | 25 |
| [I’ve mentioned Pagett was portly] Pagett went off in a swoon. | |
| That was an end to the business. Pagett, the perjured, fled | |
| With a practical, working knowledge of “Solar Myths” in his head. | |
| |
| And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips | |
| As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their “Eastern trips,” | 30 |
| And the sneers of the travelled idiots who duly misgovern the land, | |
| And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand. | |
