give expression. But God knows that the poor fellow would have felt it as the gift of a new life, if some genie of the Arabian Nights had in one night swept away the trees, leaves and all, and replaced them with a macadamized road, hiding the clouds from view with rows of tall houses.
The postmaster's salary was small. He had to cook his own meals, which he used to share with Ratan, an orphan girl of the village, who did odd jobs for him.
When in the evening the smoke began to curl up from the village cow-sheds,[1] and the cicalas chirped in every bush; when the faquirs of the Baül sect sang their shrill songs in their daily meeting-place, when any poet, who had attempted to watch the movement of the leaves in the dense bamboo thickets, would have felt a ghostly shiver run down his back, the postmaster would light his little lamp, and call out "Ratan."
Ratan would sit outside waiting for this call, and, instead of coming in at once, would reply: "Did you call me, sir?"
"What are you doing?" the postmaster would ask.
- ↑ Smoky fires are lit in the cow-sheds to drive off mosquitoes.
