THE BANIAN TREE. 
55 
are bare of leaves as far as their famished tongues can 
reach. They belong to somebody, of course. A farmer 
somewhere calls them his. But he does not feed them. 
Why should he? He does not need them just now. 
In due time the rain will come, and the grass will grow 
and keep them alive till ploughing time. Then, if well 
beaten, they will put forth all the strength that is needed 
to pull his little crooked plough through the muddy rice 
ground. If the lives of some of them flicker out before 
that, his loss will be small and his conscience will be free. 
If he lifted his own hand to shorten their lives, the waters 
of the Ganges could not purge away his sin. 
PHARAOH’S LEAN' K'NE. 
