their tutor, my teaching also began, but of what I learnt nothing remains in my memory.
What constantly recurs to me is "The rain patters, the leaf quivers."[1] I am just come to anchor after crossing the stormy region of the kara, khala[2] series ; and I am reading " The rain patters, the leaf quivers," for me the first poem of the Arch Poet. Whenever the joy of that day comes back to me, even now, I realise why rhyme is so needful in poetry. Because of it the words come to an end, and yet end not ; the utterance is over, but not its ring ; and the ear and the mind can go on and on with their game of tossing the rhyme to each other. Thus did the rain patter and the leaves quiver again and again, the livelong day in my consciousness.
Another episode of this period of my early boyhood is held fast in my mind.
We had an old cashier, Kailash by name, who was like one of the family. He was a great wit, and would be constantly cracking jokes with everybody, old and young ; recently married sons-in-law, new-comers into the family circle, being his special butts. There was room for the suspicion that his humour had not
