Page:Little Clay Cart (Ryder 1905).djvu/150

114 Sansthānaka. Why shouldn't it be malodorous?

Of nut-grass and cumin I make up a pickle,

Of devil's-dung, ginger, and orris, and treacle;

That's the mixture of perfumes I eagerly eat:

Why shouldn't my voice be remarkably shweet?

Well, shir, I'm jusht going to shing again. [He does so.] There, shir, did you hear what I shang?

Courtier. What shall I say? Ah, how melodious!

Sansthānaka. Why shouldn't it be malodorous?

Of the flesh of the cuckoo I make up a chowder,

With devil's-dung added, and black pepper powder;

With oil and with butter I shprinkle the meat:

Why shouldn't my voice be remarkably shweet?

But shir, the shervant isn't here yet.

Courtier. Be easy in your mind. He will be here presently.

Sthāvaraka. I'm frightened. It is already noon. I hope Sansthānaka, the king's brother-in-law, will not be angry. I must drive faster. Get up, bullocks, get up!

Vasantasenā. Alas! That is not Vardhamānaka's voice. What does it mean? I wonder if Chārudatta was afraid that the bullocks might become weary, and so sent another man with another cart. My right eye twitches. My heart is all a-tremble. There is no one in sight. Everything seems to dance before my eyes.

Sansthānaka. [Hearing the sound of wheels.] The cart is here, shir.

Courtier. How do you know?

Sansthānaka. Can't you shee? It shqueaks like an old hog.

Courtier. [Perceives the cart.] Quite true. It is here.

Sansthānaka. Sthāvaraka, my little shon, my shlave, are you here?

Sthāvaraka. Yes, sir.

Sansthānaka. Is the cart here?