breeze rushes from flower to flower, asking their names._

[In the following dialogue only the names of the principal
characters are given. Wherever the name is not given the speaker
is one or other of the Youths.]

April pulls hard, brother, April pulls very hard.

How do you know that?

If he didn't, he would never have pulled Dada outside his den.

Well, I declare. Here is Dada, our cargo-boat of moral-maxims,
towed against the current of his own pen and ink.

_Chandra_

But you mustn't give April all the credit for that. For I,
Chandra, have hidden the yellow leaves of his manuscript book
among the young buds of the _pial_ forest, and Dada is out
looking for it.

The manuscript book banished! What a good riddance!

We ought to strip off Dada's grey philosopher's cloak also.

_Chandra_

Yes, the very dust of the earth is tingling with youth, and yet
there's not a single touch of Spring in the whole of Dada's
body.

_Dada_

Oh, do stop this fooling. What a nuisance you are making of
yourselves! We aren't children any longer.

_Chandra_

Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet
it is not ashamed to look fresh.

Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours,
full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the
water are ever striving to be new.

Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that,
sitting in your den?

_Dada_

Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener
cultivates flowers. _My_ poems have substance and weight in
them.

Yes, they are like the turnips, which cling to the ground.

_Dada_

Well, then, listen to me----

How awful! Here's Dada going to run amuck with his quatrains.

Oh dear, oh dear! The quatrains are let loose. There's no holding
them in.

To all passers-by I give notice that Dada's quatrains have gone
mad, and are running amuck.

_Chandra_

Dada! Don't take any notice of their fun. Go on with your
reading. If no one else can survive it, I think I can. I am not a
coward like these fellows.

Come on, then, Dada. We won't be cowards. We will keep our
ground, and not yield an inch, but only listen.

We will receive the spear-thrusts of the quatrains on our breast,
not on our back.

But for pity's sake, Dada, give us only one--not more.

_Dada_

Very well. Now listen:

_If bamboos were made only into flutes,
They would droop and die with very shame,
The