of the latter end of his long, pure life, and millions are better and more faithful because he is sitting there. Just as stones continually dropped in the center of a placid pond send gentle waves to the shores, so the Holy Man of Benares, dropping golden words in the center of India, sends out waves of gentleness to the confines of gentle religion. And his people, who love animals—even the serpent—because God made them, take to themselves wings and fly into heaven or ever they come to die.
I went into the Monkey Temple this morning, and played with the absurd little people for two hours. They are of all sizes of monkeys, and live in the fear of three mangy dogs, but of no man. They sit upon the edge of the temple top and catch thrown cakes with all the adept movements and flourishes of professional base-ball players. They take you trustingly by the hand and lead you about; little green babies, with fringy faces, tell you hard-luck stories, and big gentlemen monkeys, with impressive teeth, intimi-
