Yea, voice of every Soul that clung To Life that strove from rung to rung When Devadatta’s rule was young, The warm wind brings Kamakura.
Behind them an angry farmer brandished a bamboo pole. He was a market-gardener, Arain by caste, growing vegetables and flowers for Umballa city, and well Kim knew the breed.
“Such an one,” said the lama, disregarding the dogs, “is impolite to strangers, intemperate of speech and uncharitable. Be warned by his demeanour, my disciple.”
“Ho, shameless beggars!” shouted the farmer. “Begone! Get hence!”
“We go,” the lama returned, with quiet dignity. “We go from these unblessed fields.”
“Ah,” said Kim, sucking in his breath. “If the next crops fail, thou canst only blame thine own tongue.”
The man shuffled uneasily in his slippers. “The land is full of beggars,” he began, half apologetically.
“And by what sign didst thou know that we would beg from thee, O Mali?” said Kim tartly, using the name that a market-gardener least likes. “All we sought was to look at that river beyond the field there.”
“River, forsooth!” the man snorted. “What city do ye hail from not to know a canal-cut? It runs as straight as an arrow, and I pay for the water as though it were molten silver. There is a branch of a river beyond. But if ye need water I can give that—and milk.”