The Gardener (Tagore)/78

IT was in May. The sultry noon seemed endlessly long. The dry earth gaped with thirst in the heat. When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, “Come, my darling!” I shut my book and opened the window to look out. I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee-deep in water, calling it to its bath. I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.