dusky face with her rag of a veil, if you put the question to her; or little Râm Jas shake his bald shaven poll in denial; but not one of the dark-skinned, bare-limbed village children will yield to your request for a story.
No, no!from sunrise to sunset, when even the little ones must labour, not a word; but from sunset to sunrise, when no man can work, the tongues chatter glibly enough, for that is story-telling time. Then, after the scanty meal is over, the bairns drag their wooden-legged, string-woven bedsteads into the open, and settle themselves down like young birds in a nest, three or four to a bed, while others coil up on mats upon the ground, and some, stealing in for an hour from distant alleys, beg a place here or there. The stars twinkle overhead, the mosquito sings through the hot air, the village dogs bark at imaginary foes, and from one crowded nest after another rises a childish voice telling some tale, old yet ever new,tales that were told in the sunrise of the world, and will be told in its sunset. The little audience listens, dozen, dreams, and still the willy Jackal meets his match, or Bopolûchî brave and bold returns rich and victorious from the robber's den. Hark!that is Kaniyâ's voiċe, and there is an expectant stir amongst the drowsy listeners as he begins the old old formula
'Once upon a time'
