The Cop and the Anthem
O.Henry
On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kindto their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack
is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair
warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands
his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All
Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for
him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to
provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily
on his bench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In
them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of
soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months
on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured
board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats,
seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters.
Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their
tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made
his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now
the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers,
distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had
failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting
fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely
in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of
charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was
more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of
institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out
and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to
one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If
not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit
received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus,
every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of
bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition.
Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though
conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private
affairs.
Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about
accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this.
The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant;
and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and
without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do
the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the
level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together.
Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are
gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the
silkworm and the protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest
upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black,
ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady
missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the
restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that
would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind.
A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with
a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar.
One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so
high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the
cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy
for the journey to his winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's
eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and
ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to
the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted
island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering
limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed
wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took
a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running
around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with
his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
"Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.
"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?"
said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good
fortune.
The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who
smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They
take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block
running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit.
Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great
pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its
crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into
this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers
without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak,
flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the
fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a
gentleman waiting."
"No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes
and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched
Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and
beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The
Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug
store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo
capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously
termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing
guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly
interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards
from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against
a water plug.
It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and
execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim
and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe
that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm
that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight
little isle.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his
shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and
sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with
sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through
the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an
eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young
woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed
attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to
her side, raised his hat and said:
"Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but
to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his
insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of
the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a
hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.
Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds.
I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked
past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in
the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts,
vows and librettos.
Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A
sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered
him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it,
and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of
a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of
"disorderly conduct."
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of
his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed
the welkin.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked
to a citizen.
"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to
the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to
lave them be."
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a
policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an
unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling
wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a
swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on
entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered
off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
"My umbrella," he said, sternly.
"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well,
why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why
don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a
presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman
looked at the two curiously.
"Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how
these mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse
me--I picked it up this morning in a restaurant--If you recognise it
as yours, why--I hope you'll--"
"Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a
tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street
car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He
hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered
against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted
to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who
could do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the
glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward
Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home
is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here
was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one
violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the
organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the
coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet
music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of
the iron fence.
The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians
were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves--for a little
while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem
that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had
known it well in the days when his life contained such things as
mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts
and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences
about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his
soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled,
the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties
and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel
mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with
his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would
make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken
possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet;
he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without
faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a
revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown
district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place
as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He
would be somebody in the world. He would--
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the
broad face of a policeman.
"What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.
"Nothin'," said Soapy.
"Then come along," said the policeman.
"Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court
the next morning.
II The Festival of the Sacred Tooth Relic in Sri Lanka
The Festival Of The Tooth
The Festival of the Tooth is celebrated in the Sri Lankan town of Kandy every year in the month of Asalha (July). The festival is dedicated to the sacred tooth relic which was brought from India and is now housed in the Sri Dalada Maligawa or The Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic of the town. The festival is the time for great rejoice for the native people and even foreigners are not behind in celebration of the festival. They come from far and near to be a part of this festival which has now become one of the most famous events of not only the town but also the Buddhist world.
The History of the Sacred Tooth Relic
It was believed that if the Bodhi Tree that came into contact with the Buddha had the power to bring rains, then the parts of His own body had much greater power to invite rains. With this in mind, the sacred tooth relic was brought all the way from Kalinga in India to the island of Sri Lanka in the fourth century AD. At the time, the sacred tooth relic was brought to Sri Lanka, the king was Sri Megha varna. His name itself meant 'the Resplendent one whose complexion is that of the Rain-cloud'.
The time when the sacred tooth was brought to Sri Lanka was around six centuries after the sapling of the sacred Bodhi Tree was brought into the island country. However, very soon, the popularity of the sacred tooth surpassed that of the Bodhi Tree. The simple reason for this was that it could be moved any number of time from one place to another, very unlike the Bodhi Tree itself. Also, the possesion of the tooth relic soon became a matter of power and claim to rule the land. Whoever (kings) had the tooth relic had the authority to rule the land and tried every bit to avoid the relic from falling into hostile hand.
This is amply manifested in the attempt made by the kings when the Europeans enhanced their power in the island country. King Senarath quickly transported the relic a little distance away from Kandy when the Portuguese came to close for his comfort. Later, the significance of the tooth relic became known to the Europeans themselves. They wasted no time and made it their primary goal to get hold of the precious relic. The British succeeded in 1818, and the people themselves gave up all efforts to prevent the former from ruling them, all because the British possessed the tooth relic.
The Festival & Its Progress
As per history, a number of festivals were celebrated to honour the sacred tooth relic right from time it came to Sri Lanka. Initially, processions or peraheras were taken out for the tooth relic alone. However, later, the festival got incorporated with another festival meant to appease the rain god, the Esala peraheras. At this time, a Kandyan king, Kirti Shri Rajasinghe was in power and he made it possible for the common people to worship the relic by announcing that it would be taken out in a procession for the masses to see and offer their prayers. Before this, the tooth relic was the property of the king and the common people were not allowed to worship it.
The Procession Today
The Esala Perahera begins with a ceremony in which a young jack tree is cut and planted in the complex of the four devalas, or the four guardian gods, Natha, Vishnu, Katharagama and the goddess Pattini. In earlier times, this was aimed at seeking blessings for the king and the people. The successive five nights witness the Devala Peraheras taking place within the boundary of the four devalas. On the sixth night, the Kumbal Perahera starts and goes on for the next five days.
In the beginning, the Devale Peraheras gather in front of the Sri Dalada Maligawa with their insignias placed on a dome like structure called ransivige. The relic casket, which contains a replica of the original tooth relic, is placed inside the ransivige and is attached to the Maligawa Elephant. Later, the Maligawa Perahera joins the waiting Devale Peraheras and the procession begins amidst the blowing of the conch shell. On the first elephant is the official called Peramuna Rala. Preceeding him are the whip crackers and the flag bearers while following him are the drummers, dancers, musicians and flagbearers. Next, the singers announce the arrival of the Maligawa Elephant. Following this elephant is the Diyawadana Nilame who was, in earlier times, required to do everything to ensure that the rains fall on right time. The four Devala processions follow next.
The final stage of the procession is the Randoli perahera (palanquin procession) which is very similar to the devala perahera. This is held after five days of Kumbal Perahera and terminates at the Adahanamaluva Gedige Vihara of the Asgiriya monastery. This is because originally, before being transferred to the shrine within the royal complex, the Tooth Relic was housed in this Vihara for a brief period of time. The procession ends with the firing of the cannon ball.
The next day, a day Perahera, consisting of Dalada and the Devala processions, starts from Maligava and returns to the Sacred Tooth Temple with the casket which had been kept in the monastery for the night.
The Hawk and the Tree
Afghanistanian Story: The sparrow hawk hung from one of the branches. The string on its foot was firmly caught in the tree, and the feathers the bird had shed in its death struggles were scattered all about...
For many long years a dead tree stood in our street. Nearby a cobbler had a small shop. He would open his shop early every morning and close it with a big lock at sunset each day. There were also two jobless men living on our street. I don't know why they had no jobs, but all they did every day was to sit loafing in the cobbler's shop, for all the world as though they were part of the furnishings.
One day when I passed the shop I noticed that the cobbler was not as happy and talkative as usual. He sat with a bowed head as though deep in thought. The two loafers also looked dejected and sat thinking with bowed heads. For a moment I thought they might be mimicking the cobbler, and perhaps that's what it was - a very stupid imitation.
Thinking something bad had happened, I approached the shop and spoke to the cobbler. "What's the matter?" I asked.
Slowly the cobbler raised his head and looked at me. Usually there was a merry spark in his eyes, but now I could see only some mute, vague sadness in them. And the two loafers also were looking at me with a blank expression on their faces.
"My sparrow hawk-it's escaped," the cobbler said.
At his words my heart was filled with pleasure. "How'd it get away?" I asked, feeling still more pleased by the thought of the hawk's freedom.
The cobbler must have seen that I was pleased, for suddenly he broke into boisterous laughter. The two loafers quickly jointed in. there was some sort of vengeful rage in the way the cobbler was laughing.
"Why do you laugh?" I asked him.
"Because, that damned hawk-it'll be dead soon enough," he said.
"Why should it die?" I asked.
"Because it still has a long string tied to its leg," he said, and the usual spark of merriment returned to his eyes. "Just as soon as that damned hawk lights in a tree, the string will get tangled in the branches, and the bird will be caught there until it dies." Again he laughed loudly and then added: "It's really a strong string; no bird can break it."
The pleasure in my heart had died, and I was filled with apprehension. The two loafers kept repeating the cobbler's words: "No bird can break it . . .no bird can break it."
"That hawk has carried its own death away with it," the cobbler said.
"You're very cruel," I said.
The spark was shining still brighter n his eyes. "I used to feed it live sparrows," he said. "It killed them and ate them gladly. But now it's flown away. I . . ."
I didn't wait to hear more but went on my way. His words kept echoing in my ears: "Because it still has a long string tied to its leg. It'll get tangled and the bird will be caught until it dies. It's a strong string: the hawk cannot break it . . . cannot break it . . ."
I had a bad night. I couldn't sleep. The gloomy darkness of the night pressed down upon my chest. Looking out the window, I saw the street sleeping in darkness. The black night had brought only gloom and grief. Again I tried to sleep. But somewhere inside me a thought was growing. I tried to pull the thought into my consciousness, but no matter how I tried, it could not show itself. Some power was holding the thought back, keeping it in hiding. The thought kept struggling to free itself. The night was passing, and I was afire with some mysterious fever.
In time the darkness began to disappear. In a state somewhere between sleeping and waking, I began to see that the world was full of strings. Long strings and short strings. Our street too was full of strings. Thick strings and thin strings. But all too strong to be broken. And suddenly I saw that each string was tied to someone's foot. Every person had a string tied to his foot. I too had a string on my foot.
I woke up, trembling. It was morning. A noisy shouting came from the street. I went out and saw a crowd gathered under the dead tree near the cobbler's shop. The cobbler too was there, dancing and shouting. When he saw me, he came dancing up to me and shouted: "See-I was right!"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Just come along," he said. Catching hold of my hand, he pulled me along to the dead tree, where he pointed to a branch and said: "Look! Just look!"
The sparrow hawk hung from one of the branches. The string on its foot was firmly caught in the tree, and the feathers the bird had shed in its death struggles were scattered all about. The bird was now quite dead. Its head hung down, and it was staring directly at me from lifeless eyes. It seemed I could hear the bird speaking, saying bitterly: "This is the end of the road."
"See?" said the cobbler. "Didn't I tell you it would be dead soon?"
The crowd kept shouting and pointing at the dead bird. Their eyes seemed alight with a foolish joy and satisfaction. I thought they were exulting: "How good that it's the bird that's been hung, not us!"
I looked at the people's feet. All of them were tied by strings. Strong strings. The cobbler's feet were tied too. The strings were all made of round links, and each link was in the form of a word. The word was Ego.
I burst into laughter. "Why are you laughing?" they asked me. Instead of answering them, I laughed louder and louder, until my laughter seemed to fill the street.
"Why are you laughing?" the cobbler screamed in a loud, heavy voice.
"All of you-all of you have strings tied on your feet too," I answered.
Frightened, they all looked at their feet and then asked: "Where? What strings?"
But I didn't answer: I was looking at my own feet. There was a string tied to me too, made of little links reading Ego . . . Ego . . . Ego . . .
So the thought that had been imprisoned in my subconscious had finally broken free and revealed itself. Suddenly, all the world seemed ridiculous, and I burst into laughter again.
Then all of us were hanging from the branches of the dead tree, each caught fast by one foot. The cobbler hung beside me, his face close to mine, a sad face that seemed to be saying: "That is the end of the road." The two loafers hung nearby, their faces filled with the same sadness-a very stupid imitation.
I caught sight of the hawk hanging from another branch. 'Why has it returned?" I asked myself. But then I saw there was a second string on its foot, a string that stretched all the way to the cobbler's shop. And this string was made of live sparrows!
