Beasts and Animals, Part 1

In a past age there was a lion king in a cave in the deep mountains who constantly thought: I am king among all the beasts, and I have the strength to watch over and protect them all.

In the mountain there were two monkeys who together bore two young; and the two monkeys asked the lion king: if the king can protect all the beasts, we now entrust our two young to you, for we wish to go elsewhere and look for food and drink. The lion king agreed at once, and the monkeys left their two young in his keeping and went off.

There was in that mountain a vulture king named Sharp-Sight; and while the lion king slept he snatched up the two monkey young and perched with them on a crag. The lion king woke and said to the vulture:

“I now firmly ask you / to let them go for my sake; / do not make me break faith / and give rise to my own shame.”

The vulture king answered:

“I can fly through the air, / and cross your borders without fear. / If you would protect the two young, / you should give up your body for me.”

The lion said again:

“If I now protect the two young, / to give up this body is like dry grass; / to protect the body and speak falsely — / how could that be called practice?”

Having spoken this verse he went to a high place meaning to give up his body. The vulture king said again:

“That you can give up your body for another / means you will receive unsurpassed joy. / I give you the monkey young — / may the king not harm himself.” (Source: Mahāsaṃnipāta Sūtra, fascicle 3)

The lion king is born and dwells in deep mountains and great valleys; his jaws are square and his bones huge, his body and flesh full and fat, his head large and his eyes long, his brows high and broad, his mouth and nose deep and square, his teeth even and sharp; he puts out a tongue red and white, and his two ears are set high; his spine is long and his waist slender and his belly does not show; six fangs, a long tail, and glossy mane; he knows his own strength and the keen edge of his fangs and claws; his four feet grip the ground; he dwells at ease in a rock cave, and shakes his tail and makes his sound. If any can be complete in such marks as these, know that he is a true lion king.

In the early morning he comes out of the cave, stretches and yawns, looks round in the four directions, and sends out a shaking roar; and it is for eleven purposes: first, to break those who are truly not lions and pretend to be lions; second, to test his own strength; third, to make his dwelling place clean; fourth, to let his cubs know where he is; fifth, that his troop should have no fear; sixth, that the sleeping should wake; seventh, that no beast should be careless; eighth, that the beasts may come and take refuge with him; ninth, to subdue the great scented elephants; tenth, to tell his offspring; eleventh, to adorn his retinue.

Whenever the lion’s roar is heard, those in the water sink deep, those that walk on land hide in their holes, and those that fly high fall down; the scented elephants in their stalls shake and break their chains and lose their dung and run in terror. It is as with the jackal: though it should study the lion for a hundred thousand years it can never make the lion’s roar; whereas a lion cub, once it is three years old, can already roar. On the paths of the Fragrant Mountain there are lions, and flying birds and running beasts leave no track there and do not look in. Of all animals the lion is the foremost (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 25; also the Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom).

The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: the bodhisattva Brave-Wisdom, long ago in the time of the Buddha Light, was a lion king, and I was a brahmin practicing pure conduct.

At that time the lion king would stand still in the early morning in eight postures without moving, then rouse his body and let out a great thundering roar, and the running beasts crouched still and the flying fell down; and only then would he set out. He went about the wild mountains and marshes inspecting his territory and looking for the herds, and met an elephant king and killed and ate him.

A rib-bone stuck in his throat and he died and revived again, and he said to a woodpecker: pull the bone out for me, and if I get food afterward I shall repay your kindness. The woodpecker heard him and went into his mouth and with all its strength pulled the bone and got it out.

Then some days later the lion king was hunting and killed a great many of the herd; and the woodpecker was beside him and asked more than once for the kindness owed, and the lion did not repay it. The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: then the lion king answered the woodpecker with this verse:

“I am the lion king, / and killing is my family trade; / I eat flesh and drink blood, / and take this for my ordinary fare. / You did not measure yourself, / and escaped my teeth with difficulty. / That you got out of my mouth again — / how could you forget that kindness?”

Then the woodpecker answered the lion with this verse:

“Though I am a small bird, / I know kindness and do not grudge my death. / But the king does not remember kindness / and goes back on his own weighty oath. / If you could be a little generous / and grant me even a little, / I would die without resentment / and dare make no complaint.”

Then the lion king in the end did not repay the kindness, and left him and went away. The woodpecker thought to itself: my kindness was of the greatest weight and I am despised for it. I shall follow him now and watch for my chance; one who does not repay kindness shall not walk in the world. Wherever he goes I shall never leave him.

Then the lion king again killed the herd and ate as he pleased, and, being full, slept without fear; and then the woodpecker flew at the lion and stood on his forehead and with all its force pecked out one eye. The lion started up and looked round to left and right and saw no other beast, and only the woodpecker alone in a tree.

Then the lion king said to the woodpecker: why have you now destroyed my eye? And the woodpecker answered him in verse:

“Not knowing how to repay a heavy kindness, / you gave rise besides to a harming mind. / I now leave you one eye — / how could you forget that kindness? / Though you are king among beasts, / what you do has no reciprocity. / From this let us each be done; / let us make no further bond.”

The lion king of that time is the bodhisattva Brave-Wisdom now; the woodpecker of that time is Maudgalyāyana (Source: Sūtra of the Bodhisattva’s Necklace, fascicle 9).

Long ago in the mountains there were two monks who dwelt in seclusion practicing the path and had attained the supernormal powers. Not far from them there was a lioness who bore two cubs and raised them until they were somewhat grown; and when she wished to go and forage she left the cubs in the keeping of the two religious and looked for food near their cave, coming back once every five days or so to see them. And the cubs grew close to the religious, and she left them again and went off; and so it went on for months and years.

On a later day the religious were each away and not there, and a hunter came upon the cubs and meant to shoot them, and the beasts ran off into the wood. The hunter thought: these keep close company with the religious; if I put on a religious man’s dress I shall get them. In the cave there were kāṣāya Dharma robes left behind, and the hunter put them on and went to where the cubs were; and the cubs, supposing he was the religious, ran gladly to meet him, and the hunter beat them to death and stripped off their skins and made a fur robe of them and sold it.

The religious came back from their journey and did not see the lion cubs, and looked for them and could not find them; and, settling their minds and contemplating, they knew they had been killed by a hunter, and by their supernormal power pursued him and took the skin back. They used it as a sitting-mat, and constantly stroked it and made prayers over it, wishing them to be delivered.

Not long afterward, again sitting in meditation, they contemplated to know what destiny they had gone to; and they had become twin sons in the house of a great elder of the central kingdom. When they had just entered the womb their mother was not yet aware of it, and the religious asked: elder, what do you lack? He said: my household is very rich and I lack only sons. The religious said to him: I can make you have sons. The elder was greatly pleased: then I shall be in your debt. The religious said: if you do get sons, how will you repay the kindness? He said: when they are grown I shall give them to you as disciples.

The religious made his prayer and went away; and from then on she knew she was with child, and afterward bore two boys as like as one another. When they were eight years old he came again to that house, and the boys, having a connection from before, naturally loved and revered him. The religious said to the elder: do you remember the old agreement? The elder, bound by his own oath, could not help it, and gave each of the two boys to the religious.

The religious made them novices, and, applying themselves, before long they too attained the path; and they too constantly sat on that skin, and, sitting in meditation together, contemplated where the spirit of this skin had been born — and knew it was the old skin of their own bodies. Understanding one another in turn, they came together before their teacher and bowed at his feet and thanked him: we have truly received a great kindness (Source: Parables Sūtra, fascicle 5).

In a past age, near the foot of the Snow Mountains, there was a lion, king of the beasts, who was lord of five hundred lions. Afterward this lion king grew old and sick and thin and his eyes grew dim, and, walking in front of the other lions, he fell into an empty well; and the five hundred lions all abandoned him and went.

Then a jackal saw the lion king and thought: the reason I have been able to live at ease in this wood and to have my fill of meat is the lion king. Now he has fallen into a hard place — how shall I repay him? By the side of this well there was a channel of water running, and the jackal at once set about it: with his feet he let the water through, and the water came in and filled the well, and the lion floated out.

Then the spirit of that wood spoke this verse:

“Though the body be strong and heroic in itself, / one should make a friend of the weak. / A small jackal was able to save / the lion king from the trouble of the well.”

The Buddha said: the lion king is myself; the five hundred lions are the monks; the jackal is Ānanda (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Miscellaneous Recitation, fascicle 1).

In a past age at the foot of the Snow Mountains there were two beasts, the first a lion named Fine-Mane and the second a tiger named Fine-Fang, who were good friends together and would close their eyes and lick one another; and these two beasts constantly got soft, good meat to eat.

Not far from there was a double-tongued jackal who thought: I shall go to the two beasts and say, let me be a third companion to you; will you let me join you? The lion and the tiger said: as you please. And the double-tongued jackal ate the meat the two beasts left and his body grew big and fat.

He thought: this lion Fine-Mane and this tiger Fine-Fang are good friends together and love one another and close their eyes and lick one another, and they constantly eat good meat; and if some time they do not get it they will certainly eat me. I had better use means first to set their hearts apart.

He said to the lion: the tiger has an evil mind toward you, lion; he says that everything you eat is got by his strength. The lion said: how am I to know it? The double-tongued jackal answered: tomorrow, when he sees you and closes his eyes and licks your mane, know that as the sign of ill will.

And he went and said to the tiger: the lion has an evil mind toward you and says that everything he eats is got by his own strength. The tiger said: how am I to know it? He answered: tomorrow, when he sees you and closes his eyes and licks your fur, know that as the sign of ill will.

Between these two friends the tiger conceived fear, and so he went first to the lion and said: have you given rise to an evil mind toward me? The lion said: who said this? He answered: the double-tongued jackal.

Fine-Mane asked in turn: and have you given rise to an evil mind toward me? The tiger said: no. And the tiger said to the lion: if you have said such an evil thing, we cannot be good friends together. Fine-Mane said: it is this double-tongued jackal who said such things. Why should we not be glad to live together? And he spoke this verse:

“If you believe this evil creature, / you will quickly part and go your ways, / and will carry that grief within you, / and anger and resentment will not leave your mind. / One who is a good friend / does not make a difficulty of another’s words. / To one who does not believe, whoever would divide them — / and if you believe another and part, / then you are eaten by him. / To those who do not believe the double-tongued, / harmony comes back together again, / and what is in the heart is spoken face to face, / the mind pure and the words gentle. / So should good friends be made, / harmonious as water and milk. / This wretched little creature here — / from birth its nature is evil, / one head and two tongues.”

The tiger and the lion, having verified the matter, took the jackal together and tore him in two (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, second recitation, third division; also the fourth, ninth division, the text being the same; also Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 6; also the Sūtra of the Double-Tongued Jackal, roughly the same).

In the sea to the east, outside Jambudvīpa, there is a lapis mountain named Tide, twenty yojanas high and complete with treasures of every kind. In that mountain there is a cave named Many-Colored, the place where a bodhisattva once dwelt, one yojana across and six yojanas high, in which there dwells a venomous snake cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers’ vehicle. There is another cave named Deathless, of the same height and breadth, the place where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a horse cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named Good Dwelling, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a sheep cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. The tree-spirit of that mountain is named Unconquered, and there is a rākṣasī named Good Conduct; each has a retinue of five hundred, and these two women constantly make offerings together to these three beasts.

In the sea to the south, outside Jambudvīpa, there is a crystal mountain twenty yojanas high, with a cave named Superior Color, of the same breadth and height, likewise a place where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a monkey cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named Vow, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a cock cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named Dharma Grove, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a dog cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. In it there is a fire-spirit, and a rākṣasī named Eye-Seeing; each has a retinue of five hundred, and these two women constantly make offerings together to these three creatures.

In the sea to the west, outside Jambudvīpa, there is a silver mountain named Enlightenment-Moon, twenty yojanas high, in which there is a cave named Vajra, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a pig cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named Fragrant Merit, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a rat cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named High Merit, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is an ox cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. The mountain has a wind-spirit named Moving Wind, and a rākṣasī named Unguarded; each has a retinue of five hundred, and these two women constantly make offerings together to these three beasts.

In the sea to the north, outside Jambudvīpa, there is a gold mountain named Mark of Merit, twenty yojanas high, in which there is a cave named Bright Star, one yojana broad and six yojanas high, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a lion cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named Pure Path, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a hare cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. There is another cave named Joy, of the same height and breadth, where a bodhisattva once dwelt, in which there is a dragon cultivating the loving-kindness of the hearers. The mountain has a water-spirit named Water-Deva, and a rākṣasī named Cultivating Shame; each has a retinue of five hundred, and these two women constantly make offerings together to these three beasts.

These twelve beasts travel day and night within Jambudvīpa, revered by gods and men and accomplished in merit, and they have already made deep and weighty vows before the buddhas. For one day and one night one beast constantly goes about teaching and transforming, while the other eleven abide at peace cultivating loving-kindness; and it goes round and begins again.

On the first day of the seventh month the rat first goes about, teaching and transforming all beings in the body of a rat by the hearers’ vehicle, making them leave off evil deeds and urging them to cultivate good things. So it goes in order to the thirteenth day, when the rat goes round again; and so on to the end of the twelfth month, and so likewise to the twelfth year. Therefore this land has much merit, so that even the beasts and animals can teach and transform; and therefore the bodhisattvas of other quarters should constantly revere this buddha-world.

If a monk, nun, layman, or laywoman wishes to see these twelve beasts, and wishes to obtain great wisdom, great concentration, and great supernormal power, and to receive all the scriptures there are, and to increase in wholesome dharmas — such a person should make a mountain of white clay seven feet across and twelve feet high, smear it with fragrances of every kind and gild it with gold leaf, and on its four sides all round for twenty feet scatter campaka flowers, which should be held in bronze vessels, and set out drinks of every kind out of season on the four sides. Purely keeping the precepts, bathing three times a day, revering and believing in the Three Jewels, they should stand three fathoms from the mountain facing due east and recite such a spell for fifteen days; and then upon the mountain they will see the image of the new moon, and then know that they see the twelve beasts. Having seen them, whatever they wish they obtain as they wish; and if they can practice austerities they obtain it.

With the eye one sees these twelve beasts and the bodhisattvas, who take now the form of gods, now of ghosts, now of birds and beasts, and travel through Jambudvīpa teaching and transforming beings of every kind such as these. To subdue beings in the form of a god or a human is no hard thing; to subdue beings in the form of an animal — that is what is hard (Source: Mahāsaṃnipāta Sūtra, fascicle 24).

The Buddha was travelling alone, seeking quiet and stillness, and came to the kingdom of Kosala and stayed beneath a jewel tree in the Pārileyyaka śāla grove.

At that time there was a herd of five hundred elephants whose leader was always kept at the back and always got the muddy water and the leftover grass; and, weary of the herd, he came alone to beneath the tree, and, seeing the Buddha from afar, pulled up the grass with his trunk and trod the ground level, and took up water in his trunk and sprinkled the dust and spread grass for a seat, and bent his knees and invited the Buddha to sit.

He provided for him three months, and the Buddha, knowing the elephant’s mind, accepted his invitation, and spoke this verse:

“Good alone and without sorrow, / like an elephant in the empty wild; / delighting in the precepts and the practice of learning — / what use are companions?”

Then the elephant king took fine lotus roots and washed them clean and gave them to the World-Honored One; and so for three months (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 11).

There is an elephant king named Good Dwelling, his body pure white and level in seven places, whose strength can carry him flying, his head red and the hair of his body of mixed colors, with six slender tusks; and eight thousand elephant kings are his retinue, and he dwells beneath the śāla trees of the Fragrant Mountain.

The śāla-tree king has eight thousand bathing pools, fifty yojanas across, their water cool and clear, with moats of the seven treasures and mixed flowers of five colors gathered within the pools. When the elephant king thinks of going into a pool, the eight thousand elephants come at the thought: some hold canopies and fans, some sing praises and go before, some wash the king’s tail, back, thighs, and feet, some pull up flower-roots and give them to the king to eat, some gather flowers and scatter them over the king; and the eight thousand elephants likewise bathe and enjoy themselves together, and their dung and urine the yakṣa ghosts move outside the mountain forest.

(The Sarvāstivāda Vinaya says that at Lake Anavatapta there is the palace of the elephant king Good Dwelling. The Ekottarika Āgama says that on the flank of the Fragrant Mountain there are eighty-four thousand white elephants.)

The lowest of the elephants that Śakra rides — the wheel-turning sage-king rides it, and it is called the elephant-treasure. In the Gold-Cliff Mountains there are eighty thousand rock caves in which eighty thousand elephants rest, their bodies pure white and their heads of mixed colors, their mouths with great tusks and gold filling the gaps between their teeth (Source: Dīrgha Āgama, fascicle 18; also the Ekottarika Āgama and the Lokasthāna Sūtra).

In an ancient age there was an elephant living in seclusion who bore a calf; and not long after it had touched the ground its mother died. Not far from there was the dwelling of a sage who had majestic power, complete in merit, and whose intent held great compassion; and, seeing from afar the elephant calf whose mother had died and who could barely lift its feet and wandered east and west and could not keep itself alive, he took it home to where he lived and fed it on water and fruit.

That elephant calf was gentle and good and complete in fine merit and delighted in what was right; and being at ease it had no trouble. Then the sage lay down and rose in the same place with it, and its body grew and its coat became glossy; and it took water and drink and provided for the sage, and gave him the good fruits and melons and ate afterward itself. The sage in compassion observed its virtuous conduct and loved it as a son and never tired of looking at it.

Then Śakra, lord of the gods, conceived this thought: this sage’s intent rests on the elephant calf and his fondness never tires; had I not better set them apart and make him grieve? And Śakra manifested a test, and made the elephant calf suddenly die on the ground with its blood flowing out.

The sage, seeing the elephant calf dead, grieved and wept; and other sages heard and came and reasoned with him and could not remove his grief. Then Śakra, lord of the gods, standing in the open sky, spoke a verse for the sage; and then Śakra brought the elephant calf back to life, and the sage was greatly delighted.

The sage is my preceptor; the elephant calf that died is his disciple; and Śakra, lord of the gods, is myself (Source: Sūtra Spoken by the Buddha on the Death of a Disciple).

In a past age there were three friends, an elephant, a monkey, and a francolin (the Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 27, now writes it diāntuō bird), living together in dependence on one nyagrodha tree; and they said to one another: since we depend together on this tree we should show respect to one another.

The monkey and the francolin together asked the elephant: how far back do you remember? The elephant said: I remember that when I was small and walked over this tree it came level with my belly.

The elephant and the francolin asked the monkey, and the monkey answered: I remember that when I was small I could reach the top of this tree with my raised hand (the Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya says: I urinated on the top of this tree). The elephant said to the monkey: you are older in years than I.

The elephant and the monkey together asked the francolin, and the francolin said: I remember that on the right side of the Snow Mountains there was a great nyagrodha tree; I ate its fruit and came here and passed it, and this tree grew from that.

They said to one another: the francolin is oldest in years. And the elephant set the monkey on his head, and the monkey set the francolin on his shoulder, and they travelled together among people, from village to village and town to town, constantly speaking this verse:

“If a person can hold the Dharma in mind, / he will surely respect all elders; / in this present life he has good repute, / and in the life to come is born in a good destiny.”

When the francolin spoke this Dharma the people all followed it and the teaching of the Dharma spread abroad. [The Buddha said:] you who have gone forth in my Dharma should show respect to one another. So the Buddha-Dharma spreads abroad; and from now on I permit that you show respect according to seniority, bowing, going out to meet, and inquiring after one another. Then the monks heard the Buddha’s instruction, and the monks in order of seniority showed respect and bowed to one another (Source: Dharmaguptaka Vinaya, fourth division, fascicle 3; also Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Seven Dharmas, fascicle 6).

The horse king is named Balāha, and his palace is on Bright Moon Mountain on an island in the great sea, and eight thousand horses are his retinue. If a wheel-turning sage-king appears in the world, the smallest of them is taken as the horse-treasure and given to the king to ride (Source: Ekottarika Āgama).

A man from a distant place brought a great ox, fat and strong, and sold it to a man of the city of Śrāvastī; and the city man bought it meaning to kill it. In the city gate they met the Buddha, and the ox saw the Buddha from afar and its heart was full of grief and joy, and it broke its chain and ran, and no one could restrain it; and it went straight to the Tathāgata and bent its two front legs and lowed sorrowfully with tears coming out, and said with its own mouth: a great sage is hard to meet with and comes once in a hundred million ages. I ask you to send down your great compassion and look on me once and save me.

The Buddha said: it may well be done. In a far distant age there was a wheel-turning king, king of the four continents, with a thousand sons and the seven treasures, who governed by just law and whose people were at peace, and who had four virtues besides: he looked on the people as his children and the people served him as a father; and śramaṇas, brahmins, elders, and common people never fell ill; and his virtue was proclaimed in the four regions and reached through the ten directions.

The king went out on a progress through the four quarters and was returning toward his palace, and met an old acquaintance who had been seized by a creditor and was said to owe fifty taels of gold, and was tied to a tree. The king’s seven treasures and his retinue stopped and would not go on, and he wondered why; and it was reported to him.

The king said: release him and let him go, and I shall repay you double, a hundred taels. So he was released and went home; and the man came again and again to the gate of the king’s palace and sought the gold and did not get it; and the creditor had gone away and it was not known where. And so through birth and death, going round and coming back over countless kalpas, he never repaid what was owed, down to this present life, in which he has fallen among oxen, and the creditor has sold him for several thousand taels of gold.

The wheel-turning king of that time is myself; the creditor is this ox. The Buddha, as a sage-king, guaranteed the repayment and in the end did not give it; and so he has come now to ask for help.

The Buddha told the ox’s owner: I shall beg alms for you and repay double the price of the ox. The ox’s owner would not, and still wanted the ox. The Buddha told him again: I shall weigh the ox’s body and give you so much gold by weight. And still he would not give it up. Then Śakra and Brahmā came down together and said to the Buddha: we shall bring the ten million taels.

The ox was taken to the Jetavana, and after seven days its life ended and it was at once born in heaven; and it soon remembered and knew and thought on the Buddha’s merit, and came back to the human world and scattered flowers in offering and repaid the Buddha’s kindness. The Buddha taught the sūtra for him and he at once stood on the ground of non-retrogression and obtained the acceptance of the non-arising of dharmas, and returned to heaven (Source: Jātaka Sūtra, fascicle 4).

In a past age, in a certain wilderness, a buffalo king stopped and dwelt, going about eating grass and drinking from the springs. Then the buffalo king, with his herd and retinue, going wherever they went, was alone in front; his face and appearance were fine, his majesty lofty, his name and virtue outstanding, patient and harmonious, his going and stopping composed.

A monkey lived beside the road, and, seeing the buffalo king with his retinue, his heart was full of rage and jealousy arose in him, and he threw up dust and tiles and stones and pelted them and slighted and insulted them; and the buffalo received it in silence and did not answer.

When they had passed on not long, another company of buffalo came following behind with their king, and the monkey, seeing them, likewise reviled them and threw up dust and pelted them. And this second company, seeing that the first buffalo king had been silent and had not contended, did the same, and were patient and did not resent it.

When this retinue had passed on not long, a buffalo calf came following behind after the herd, and the monkey pursued and reviled and insulted and slighted it. The calf harboured resentment and was displeased; but seeing that those before it had been patient and unresentful, it too did as they had done.

Not far from the road there was a great thicket of trees in which a tree-spirit dwelt, and it asked the buffalo king: why do you, seeing this monkey and being coarsely reviled, on the contrary bear it patiently and keep silence and not answer? The buffalo answered:

“He slights and insults and reviles me, / and will do the same to others besides; / those others will repay him for it, / and then he will meet with disaster.”

When the buffalo had passed on not long, there came along the road a great company of brahmins, sages and the like; and then that monkey reviled and insulted them too, and the brahmins seized him at once and trampled him to death. Then the tree-spirit spoke a verse again:

“Evil deeds do not rot away; / when the calamity ripens one meets the trouble. / The evil deed is now full, / and the calamities do not decay.”

The Buddha said: the buffalo king is myself. Being a bodhisattva, and having fallen through an offense into the state of a buffalo king, I constantly practiced patience and cultivated the four states of mind — loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity — and so came of myself to buddhahood (Source: Jātaka Sūtra, fourth division).

In the past there was a man who had a black ox; and another ox-owner, for the sake of goods, made a proclamation: whose ox is stronger than mine? If yours wins, I forfeit goods; if it loses, you forfeit goods to me. The black ox’s owner answered: it may be so.

Then a heavy load was set on and the ox was harnessed to the left of the cart, and they laughed together and slighted him: black crooked-horn — and struck him with a rod: pull this cart away. The ox heard it and at once lost its color and strength and could not pull the load up the slope; and the black ox’s owner forfeited a great deal of goods.

The man who had won the goods afterward made the proclamation again, and the black ox, hearing his voice, said to its master: you may answer, so be it. Its master said: I cannot. And why? Because you, wretched black ox, forfeited a great deal of my goods; and if you do it again my goods will all be forfeited.

The ox said to its master: earlier, in front of the crowd, you described me in slighting terms, and because I heard an evil name I lost my color and strength; and that is why I could not pull the load up the slope. Now take my word and do not speak evil words. When you are in front of others, say to me: you are a fine black ox, well-born and auspicious, your horns broad and straight.

The master took the ox’s word and washed and brushed it and smeared its horns and put a fine flower-garland on it and harnessed it to the right side of the cart, and with soft and loving words: great auspicious black ox, broad-horned and greatly strong — pull this cart away. And the ox, hearing these soft and loving words, at once got color and strength and pulled the load up the slope; and the black ox’s owner got back what he had lost before, two and three times over.

That ox’s owner, having got a great profit, was very glad at heart, and spoke this verse:

“Carrying a load into a deep rut, / following my words it can go on. / Therefore one should speak gently / and should not give rise to evil words. / Gentle words have color and strength; / this ox can pull a load. / I have obtained great wealth, / and body and mind have joy.”

The Buddha told the monks: even an animal, hearing itself described in slighting terms, loses its color and strength — how much more a human being (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, second recitation, fascicle 3; the Dharmaguptaka Vinaya, first division, fascicle 7, is roughly the same).

Long ago there was a great householder whose business was lending money, and two men borrowed ten thousand and repaid it at the due time. On a later day the two men said to one another: let us each borrow a hundred thousand more and not repay it afterward.

There was an ox tied in the fence which said to the two men: in a former life I was in debt to the master for a thousand coins and did not repay the debt, and three times over I have become an ox and it is still not settled. How much more, if you gentlemen mean to take a hundred thousand — your offense will have no time of ending.

The two men were startled and wondered; and when the sky had grown light and the master came out, the two men told him what the ox had said. The master then set it loose among the herd and did not use it any more, and made this prayer: let this ox from now on receive an animal body no longer; and if there is money left over, let it all be given away. And when the ox’s life ended it was born among humans (Source: Parables Sūtra).

Long ago a man had a donkey which he used to pull a cart, and it went several hundred li a day. He said to his younger brother: do not let the donkey out to meet other donkeys.

His brother wondered at it and thought to himself: when wise men meet they are glad, and when flatterers meet they are glad too; when creatures of a kind meet, there is none that is not glad. So his brother let the donkey out and let it meet the others; and it did not bray, and they sniffed at one another and it would not eat.

Afterward his brother harnessed it and it lay down and would not go, and his brother was greatly enraged and cut off its mane and ears; and, getting the pain of it, the donkey went as before.

The donkey said to its master: your brother let me out and I met a bad friend, and I asked him: how are you so fat? He answered: I carry earth for the potter, and when I get onto a bad road I lie down and will not go, and the potter carries the earth on foot himself and lets me out by the roadside to eat; and I get good grass to eat and come home to fodder and grain, and that is why I am fat. I asked: how are you so thin? I answered: I pull a cart five hundred li a day, and my food and drink are hard to come by, and that is why I am thin.

Thinking that by being thin and lying down I might get fat, I found myself shaved instead, and I dare not lie down again. I beg to be allowed to live. And his master pitied him and set him free (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra, fascicle 8).

A herd of oxen were gentle and good by nature, and wherever they went they chose soft and fine grass to eat and clear cool water to drink.

Then a donkey thought: I too shall imitate their eating and drinking. And he went into the herd of oxen and pawed the ground with his forefeet and butted and provoked the oxen, and imitated their lowing and could not change it, and his voice called himself an ox too. And the oxen gored him with their horns and killed him and left him and went away (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 20).

The Buddha was in the kingdom of Śrāvastī. In a past age there was a dog who left its own household and went to another house to beg for food; and when it went into that house its body was inside the gate and its tail outside the gate. Then the householder who owned the place beat it and gave it no food.

The dog went to the officials and said: this householder — I went to his house to beg for food, and he gave me no food and beat me instead. I did not break the law of dogs. The officials asked: what law have dogs? He answered: in my own house I sit and lie as I please; when I go to another’s house my body goes in at the gate and my tail stays outside the gate.

The officials said: summon the householder. And they asked him: did you truly beat the dog and give it no food? He answered: it is so. The officials asked the dog: how should this man be dealt with?

The dog said: give this man the office of a great householder of the city of Śrāvastī. Why? Because I was formerly a great householder in this city of Śrāvastī, and because of the evil I did with body and mouth I received this dog’s body. This man’s evil is greater than mine; and if he is given power and position he will do great evil and enter hell and suffer torment in the extreme (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, third recitation, fascicle 1).

Long ago there was a kingdom in which grain rose steeply in price and the people were famished. Then a śramaṇa went into the city on alms round and got nothing at all, and came next to the gate of a great and wealthy elder and got coarse and poor rice.

Just as he was about to go out of the city he met a butcher carrying a puppy home meaning to kill it; and, seeing the śramaṇa, the man was glad and came forward and made obeisance to him. The śramaṇa made his prayer for long life and length of days, and knowing that he had a puppy and meant to kill it, asked deliberately: what are you carrying? He answered: I am going empty-handed.

He asked again: I have already seen it; I ask you to show it me. I shall trade food for the puppy and let its life be saved. The man answered: I cannot give it to you. And so three times, and he pressed and coaxed him earnestly, and the man was obstinate and would not follow his words.

He said again: at least show it me. And the man brought it out and showed it to the śramaṇa, and he held up the rice and fed the puppy and stroked it and made a prayer over it, and the puppy’s tears came out: it is by your own offense that you are not free. May your offense be extinguished life after life and merit be born, and may you leave the puppy’s body and be born a human being and meet with the Three Jewels.

The puppy, having got the food, a good mind arose in it; and when its life passed it was at once born into a great and noble elder’s household, and as soon as it was born and touched the ground it had a kindly heart.

Then that śramaṇa came in turn to the elder’s gate on alms round, and the elder’s son, then seven years old, seeing that śramaṇa, remembered and knew the original cause, and came forward and bowed his head at the śramaṇa’s feet and asked him in to make an offering. And he went back and said to his parents: I now wish to follow this great preceptor and receive the sūtras and the precepts and become his disciple.

His parents loved him and would not consent, and the boy wept and would not eat or drink: if you will not let me go I shall die. So his parents consented, and he followed his teacher and studied the path, and his beard and hair were removed and he put on the three Dharma robes, and he obtained samādhi and stood in non-retrogression, and opened and transformed all beings to give rise to the resolve for the great path (Source: Sūtra of Kāśyapa Questioning Ānanda).

The Buddha went to the city of Śrāvastī and travelled about on alms round, and came in due course to the house of Śuka, son of Taudeya the Parrot, and happened to find him not at home. There was a white dog named Jù, sitting on a fine mat and eating white rice and meat from a golden bowl.

The white dog saw the World-Honored One coming from afar, and, having seen him, barked. The World-Honored One said: stop, white dog; you need not make that noise. You used to chant (that is, the brahmin’s begging tone), and so you have become a white dog. The white dog was extremely enraged, and came down from the couch and lay at the threshold in silence.

Afterward Taudeya came back and asked those about him: who has provoked my dog and made it unhappy? Today the śramaṇa Gautama came to the house to beg for food, and the dog barked at him, and Gautama said: stop, white dog; you should not make that noise, for you used to chant. And the dog was angry and unhappy.

Śuka, son of Taudeya the Parrot, reviled the World-Honored One from afar, and, slandering and enraged, went to Anāthapiṇḍada’s park. Seeing Śuka coming from afar, the Buddha told the monks: this man is enraged; when his body breaks up he will be born in niraya.

Then Śuka said to the World-Honored One: the śramaṇa Gautama came to my house today to beg for food. What fault has the white dog toward you, that you should make it unhappy? The Buddha said: the white dog saw me and barked, and I said: white dog, you should not make that noise, for you used to chant — and the white dog was enraged.

Gautama, this white dog — what kinsman of mine was it? The Buddha said: stop, Taudeya, do not ask; you may perhaps be distressed and unhappy. And so twice and three times.

The World-Honored One said: this white dog of yours, Taudeya, was in a former birth your father, named Taudeya. His rage was redoubled: my father Taudeya constantly gave alms and constantly served the fire, and when his body broke up and he died he was born in the Brahmā heaven. Why should he be born among dogs?

[The Buddha said:] this, Taudeya, is because of your overweening pride; and your father Taudeya afterward was the same, and was born among wretched and evil dogs. And he spoke this verse:

“A brahmin with overweening pride, / at the end of this is born in the six destinies: / among fowls, pigs, dogs, and jackals, / among donkeys, in eggs, and in hell.”

The Buddha said: if you do not believe what I say, you may go home and say to the white dog: if you were in your former birth my father Taudeya, go back up onto the couch and eat white rice and meat from the golden bowl, and show me my father’s remaining property, which you hid in your former life and I do not know the place of.

So Śuka, son of Taudeya the Parrot, hearing what the World-Honored One said, considered it well and went home and said all of it to the white dog. Then the white dog went back up onto the couch and sat, and ate white rice and meat from the golden bowl, and went to the place where it had originally lain and, at the four feet of the couch, scraped the earth with its mouth and paws — and Śuka, son of Taudeya the Parrot, got a great deal of money.

A glad mind arose in him, and he put his right knee to the ground facing the Jeta Grove and named himself: truly the śramaṇa speaks truth and does not speak falsely. Having said this three times, he went out of the city of Śrāvastī toward the Jeta Grove.

The World-Honored One saw him from afar and told the monks: do you see Śuka, son of Taudeya the Parrot, coming? Yes, World-Honored One. If at this moment the son of Taudeya were to die he would be born in a good place, because he has a good mind toward me; and because beings have a good mind, when their bodies break up and they die they are born in a good place, in heaven. Then Śuka, son of Taudeya the Parrot, went to the World-Honored One and, when they had greeted one another, said: what the Buddha said was not otherwise (Source: Madhyama Āgama, fascicle 39, in the Parrot chapter).

There was an elder of measureless wealth who had a vicious dog that constantly liked to bite people, so that no one could go in at his gate at will. There was a monk, intelligent and wise, whose sagely penetration was hard to match, who went in at the gate to beg; and it happened that the dog had gone out and was lying down and did not notice him go in.

The elder set out food, and the dog noticed and only then saw him, and thought: I went out and lay down and did not notice the śramaṇa getting in; and now he is already seated — what is to be done about it? If he eats alone, when he comes out I shall certainly bite him to death and eat the fine food in his belly; and if he shares his food with me, I shall spare him.

The śramaṇa knew what it was thinking, and ate one lump himself and gave one lump to the dog; and a good and kindly mind arose in it toward the śramaṇa, and it came forward and licked his feet, and afterward went out of the gate and lay down.

Someone it had bitten before cut off its head with a sword, and the dog was at once born in the elder’s wife’s womb; and being born, it was short-lived and soon died again, and was born again into another elder’s household in that country.

At ten years and more it saw a śramaṇa and went forward to meet him and made obeisance, and asked his parents to let him be his teacher; and he set out offerings and received the sūtras and precepts, and transformed everyone in the household, great and small, to recite the sūtras and keep the path in mind. And on the strength of it he asked his two parents to let him become a śramaṇa; and he did not take the full precepts, but provided for his preceptor day and night without slackening, and only after his preceptor’s death did he receive the virtue of the precepts (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra, fascicle 6).

Long ago there were several hundred deer in a herd who, following the fine grass, came close to a human settlement; and the king of the country came out hunting and they were scattered. There was one doe, with young, wandering alone, who was pursued, and, hungry and worn out, lost her companions; and she bore two fawns and left them and went to look for food, and, alone and startled and losing her footing, she fell into a hunter’s snare, and she cried out sorrowfully and wished to get out and could not free herself.

The hunter heard the sound and went to look, and, seeing the deer, was glad at heart and came forward meaning to kill her; and the deer knocked her head and begged for pity and set out her case: I have just borne two fawns, still small and without understanding, whose eyes are only beginning to see dimly and who do not yet know east from west. I beg the loan of a moment to go back and see my young and show them water and grass so that they may live, and I shall come straight back to my death and shall not break faith with my oath.

The hunter was startled and wondered, and answered the deer: not one person in the whole world has utmost sincerity, much less a deer; if your body escapes death, how should you come back? The deer answered again: if you let me go, my young live; if you keep me, my young die. And she spoke a verse:

“My body is a beast, / and I dwell and range in wood and marsh; / a base creature, I covet body and life / and cannot go deliberately against death. / Now I have come into your snare / and my part is to go to the knife and block. / I do not begrudge this rank and stinking body — / I only pity my two young.”

The hunter thought it strange and extraordinary, and his mind was still greedy, and he answered the deer again: cunning and falsehood have no substance, and craft and deceit are hard to trust; empty show has ten thousand faces and cunning is not of one kind. Those who love the body and think death heavy are seldom able to keep faith with their lives, and it is because people are not good that it is hard to fix a term with them — much less a beast; once gone, how should you come back? I certainly shall not let you go.

The deer shed tears again and answered in verse:

“Though my body is a base beast / and I do not know the way of humanity and right, / how, having received a kindly favor, / should I go once and not come back? / Better to go to the pain of being torn apart / than to live by falsehood. / I grieve for my two young in their want, / and beg the loan of a moment. / If there is an evil person in the world / who sets the community of monks at strife, / who breaks stūpas and ruins temples / and kills arhats besides, / and turns and harms father and mother, / wife and children and servants — / if I do not come back, / my offense would be greater than that.”

The hunter, hearing the deer’s words again, was the more moved in his heart, and drew back and exclaimed: I, born in this world, have obtained a human birth, and am foolish and deluded and dark, and turn my back on kindness and hold right cheap; I harm living beings and make killing my trade, and by cunning and falsehood get what I can and covet without ever being satisfied; I do not know impermanence or know how to distinguish the Three Honored Ones. What this deer says is beyond what a human says; her oath and her knocking of her head reach to the utmost, and her feeling shows itself as wholly loyal. And he came forward and undid the snare and let her go.

So the deer came back to where her young were, and lowered her head and cried and licked their bodies, in grief and joy together, and spoke a verse:

“All meetings of love and affection / come about by causes and conditions; / where there is meeting there is parting, / and impermanence is hard to keep long. / I am now your mother / and constantly fear I cannot keep myself; / born in the world there is much to be feared, / and life is briefer than the morning dew.”

Then the mother deer took her two young and showed them good water and grass, her tears flowing, and spoke a verse of farewell:

“Going out this morning I met misfortune / and fell by mistake into a hunter’s hands. / At once I shall be butchered and cut up, / my body broken and turned to rot. / Thinking of you I begged for pity and came; / now I shall go back to my death. / I pity you, orphaned so early and so small — / strive to keep yourselves alive.”

The mother deer, having spoken, left them and went; and the two young cried out and wept in sorrow and longing, and pursued after her from behind, falling and rising again. Their mother turned and said: go back and do not come; do not let mother and children lose their lives together. My dying I bear with a willing heart; but I grieve that you do not yet know that the world is impermanent and that all have their partings. My own fate is thin and you were born without protection; why grieve, and only add to your troubles? You had better set your resolve and see out your lives. And their mother spoke this verse again for her young:

“In a former life I was greedy with love, / and now I have come to love the keeping of this body. / All born in the world must die; / one does not escape and the trouble does not end. / Restrain the mind and once depart from greed, / and afterward there is great peace. / Better to go to death with faith kept / than to live by cheating and peril.”

Her young still grieved and cried and followed her as far as the snare, looking east and west; and they saw the hunter lying asleep beneath a tree. The mother deer stood still and spoke a verse to wake him:

“The deer you let go before / has now come back to her death. / Your kindness flowed and favored a base beast, / and I have been able to take leave of my two young. / I took and showed them water and grass / and told them of impermanence and suffering. / Though I die ten thousand times I have no regret left; / thinking of your kindness I dare not fail it.”

The hunter then woke with a start and got up, and the deer knelt toward him and spoke again in verse:

“You let me go before; / that virtue is weightier than heaven and earth. / A base beast has been covered by kindness / and comes back to her death to keep faith. / Moved by your humanity, the kindness is hard to forget; / I dare not go against your command. / Though I come back and repay it, / still the account of that kindness is not settled.”

The hunter, seeing the deer’s deep faith and her dying for what was right, her resolve and integrity wholly sincere, her kindly conduct giving rise to loyalty, and how what he had released came back in proof of it, giving up life to fulfil an oath — and mother and children in grief and longing following one another to the place — was moved by kindness and struck with pity, and bowed his head and apologized:

“You are a god or a spirit; / your faith and righteousness are as fine as this. / My feeling is in fear and awe — / how should I dare do you harm? / Sooner would I kill this mean body of mine / and let the harm reach my wife and children / than bear, before a divine being, / to raise even the breadth of a hair of such a thought.”

The hunter then let the deer go, and mother and young in grief and joy cried out, and in verse thanked the hunter:

“A base beast born in the world / ought rightly to fill the kitchen and the block; / and at once, at the moment of the boiling and slaughtering, / by your generosity I took leave of my two young. / Heaven’s humanity holds living things dear, / and I have received release and pardon besides. / Your virtue and blessing are piled up beyond measure, / and are not what a mouth can set out.”

The hunter reported all of it to the king, and the people of the kingdom all knew of it and were universally moved by that kindness and faith; and that the humane conduct of a beast should surpass what is right in a man — there was none who did not sigh in awe, and killing and hunting were stopped for it. The deer went back and called her herd and whistled to her companions, and they came together and were each at peace in their place.

The Buddha said: the deer of that time is myself; the two young are Rāhula and Yaśodharā; the king of that time is Śāriputra; the hunter is Ānanda (Source: Sūtra of the Deer’s Young).

Long ago a king went out hunting and made an enclosure and a ditch to catch a herd of deer. Then a deer king, leading several hundred million deer, went in due course to eat the fine grass and came into the enclosure, and the keepers shut the gate and went and reported to the king, and the king was greatly delighted.

The deer king knew it and thought to himself: the reason the herd came here is my own single self. I should devise a means to save the lives of the many. And he laid his body across the ditch and made the herd tread on his back and go out; and their hooves wounded his back and the skin and flesh were entirely gone and only the bones were left, and, enduring the pain, he saved them, and they all got out.

Making his own way up the bank he looked round in the four directions, and there was one deer that did not know how to get out; and the deer king called it and it came and got out. And thereupon the deer king’s life ended and he fell into the ditch (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra, fascicle 8).

The Buddha was on Mount Gṛdhrakūṭa at Rājagṛha and his body had a wind ailment, and Jīvaka the king of physicians compounded a ghee medicine for him of thirty-two ingredients, and he took thirty-two taels a day.

At that time Devadatta constantly harboured jealousy and thought himself great and hoped to equal the Buddha, and imitated the Buddha and took the same, and it poured into all his veins and his bodily strength grew weak and he groaned in distress. The World-Honored One in pity stroked his head with his hand, and the medicine was digested and the illness removed; and, recognizing the Buddha’s hand, he said: Siddhārtha, other arts you do not carry on in the world, and now you study medicine as well.

The Buddha said: it is not only today that Devadatta harbours an unwholesome mind. Long ago in Jambudvīpa there was a city named Vārāṇasī whose king was named Brahmadatta, violent and without kindness. He dreamed of a beast whose body-hair was gold-colored, with golden light at the tips of the hairs, and he summoned the hunters and told them the whole of his dream: go and hunt for it. If you get its skin I shall reward you richly; and if you do not, I shall wipe out your clans.

Then the hunters were grieved and distracted and gathered to take counsel, and together chose one man and sent him to go and look for it: and if you do not come back safely, we shall give goods to your wife and children. The man thought to himself: I may as well cast away my body and life — and went.

He crossed dangerous country and went, and after a long while his body was worn out; the weather was hot and the steaming heat was killing him, and he said in his grief and exhaustion: is there anyone with compassion to save my body and life?

There was a wild beast named Míngtuó, its body-hair gold-colored, who heard him and was moved with great pity, and went into a cold spring and came and took him in its arms; and when he had a little strength again it brought him to the water and washed him and gathered fruit to feed him, and his body was restored.

And he thought to himself: this is the very beast the king seeks. But I was near death and by his help my life was saved; and being moved by kindness that I have not repaid, with what heart should I do him harm? And yet, if I get nothing, those hunters will surely be executed. Thinking of this he grieved.

Míngtuó asked: why are you unhappy? He answered with what was in his heart. Míngtuó said: do not worry about this matter; my skin is easily got. I have cast away this body countless times and have never made merit with it; now with my body’s skin I shall save the lives of that multitude. If you must have it, only strip off the skin and do not take my life at once. In giving it to you I shall have no regret at all.

The hunter stripped off the skin, and Míngtuó then made this vow: now that I give this skin to this man to save those lives that he loves, let me hold this merit and give it to those beings, and by it accomplish the buddha-path and deliver all universally. When this vow was made the three thousand lands shook in six ways.

After the skin was taken away, his body and flesh were red and naked and the blood flowed and streamed; and eighty thousand flies and ants gathered on his body and fed on it all at once. He wished to go to his hole and feared he would harm them, and endured the pain and held himself so that his body did not stir, and died there; and those flies and ants that fed on him, when their lives ended, were born in heaven.

The hunter carried the skin up to the king, and the king thought it wonderful and constantly spread it and lay on it, and his body and mind were at ease and happy.

The beast Míngtuó is myself; King Brahmadatta is Devadatta now; and the eighty thousand insects are the eighty thousand gods who attained the path when I had first attained buddhahood and first turned the wheel of the Dharma (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 3).

There was a jackal who went to a lion and begged food, and always got the leftovers, and went again and again and never stopped. It happened once that the lion was hungry and had not yet got food, and he called the jackal and sniffed it with his nose and swallowed it at once. Not yet dead, in his throat, it cried out: master, let me live. The lion thought: I fed you so that your fur should be fat, and I keep you against a time like this. What is it you say? (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra)

A woman set her infant down in a certain place, and a wolf carried the child off and ran; and people pursued it and said to it: why do you carry off another’s child?

The wolf answered them: this small child’s mother is my enemy. For five hundred lives she has constantly eaten my young, and I likewise for five hundred lives have constantly killed her children. If she can give up her old enmity of mind, I too can give it up.

Then the people said to the child’s mother: you may give up your mind of enmity. The child’s mother answered: I have now given it up. The wolf observed the child’s mother, and although her mouth said she gave it up, in her mind she did not let it go; and it killed the child and went away (Source: Abridged Abhidharma, fascicle 28).

Long ago there was a brahmin of a hundred and twenty years who from his youth had taken no wife and had no lewdness, and who dwelt quietly in the deep mountains with a hut of thatch and a mat of mugwort, and took water and fruit and melons for his food. He did not accumulate wealth or treasure, and when a king sent for him he did not go, but sat upright in non-action; and for several thousand years he amused himself with the birds and beasts.

There were four kinds of beasts: the first a fox, the second a monkey, the third an otter, the fourth a hare; and these four beasts heard the sūtras and the exposition of the precepts at the religious man’s place, and so it went on for a long time; and the fruits and melons were all used up.

Afterward the religious man had a mind to go away, and these four great beasts were grieved and unhappy and conferred together: let each of us seek an offering.

The monkey took sweet fruit and brought it and offered it to the religious. The fox too sought food and got a bag of rice and parched grain and brought it and offered it to the religious. The otter went into the water and took a great fish and brought it and offered it to the religious.

The hare thought to itself: what shall I use to make an offering to the religious? And it thought: I shall offer my body. And it went and gathered brushwood and lit a fire and made coals, and went and said to the religious: I am now small and slight; let me become coals and go into the fire and offer my body to the religious.

The fire would not burn, and the religious was moved by its humanity and right and, pitying it, stopped it.

The brahmin of that time is the Buddha Dīpaṃkara; the hare is myself; the monkey is Śāriputra; the fox is Ānanda; the otter is Maudgalyāyana (Source: Old Parables Sūtra, lower fascicle).

The Buddha and the monks accepted an invitation from the brahmin Shīzhì and went back to Gṛdhrakūṭa and washed their vessels at the riverside. In the mango grove there was a monkey, who, going about, saw a tree with ripe honey in it and no bees, and came to Ānanda and asked for his bowl; and Ānanda would not give it. The Buddha said: only give it.

The monkey got the bowl (the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya says it asked for the Buddha’s bowl), filled it with honey, and offered it to the World-Honored One; and the World-Honored One would not accept it and had it made clean with water. The monkey did not understand and supposed he meant there were insects in it, and took it to the water’s edge and washed the bowl; and the water lapped into the honey and it carried it back and offered it to the Buddha (the Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish says it washed out the red insects; the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya says it saw insects and set it aside and took more).

The Buddha distributed it among the community of monks and it went round them all. The monkey, delighted, leapt and danced backward and fell into a pit and died, and became a child in the womb of Shīzhì’s wife, and was afterward born a boy of handsome form and features (the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya says: he was born in the Trāyastriṃśa heaven, and afterward born among humans and attained the path of an arhat).

The Buddha said: in the past, in the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa, there was a young śramaṇa who saw an arhat leap across a stream and said to him, taking him for an ordinary monk: you are as quick and light as a monkey. And for five hundred lives thereafter he was constantly a monkey (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 12; also Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 10; also Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 29).

The Tathāgata entered nirvāṇa in the kingdom of Mathurā, and a hundred years afterward, on Mount Uruvilvā-manda, on one side there were five hundred pratyekabuddhas, on another side five hundred sages, and on another five hundred monkeys.

The chief of the monkeys went among the pratyekabuddhas and saw them and a glad mind arose in him, and he took the flowers and fruit of the trees and made offerings to the pratyekabuddhas, and made obeisance and sat at the end of the assembly; and so he did day after day.

Afterward the pratyekabuddhas all entered nirvāṇa, and the monkey made offerings as before; and, seeing that the pratyekabuddhas would not receive them, he pulled their robes and took hold of their feet, and still they did not move. The monkey reflected: they are all dead. And he wept and grieved.

Then he went to where the five hundred sages were, and they all went among the thorns and brambles, and the monkey went too; the sages went onto ash and earth, and the monkey went onto the ash and earth; the sages scorched their bodies with the five heats, and the monkey did likewise; the sages hung themselves from trees by their hands, and the monkey pushed their hands away and made them fall to the ground.

He constantly taught and transformed the sages in the four postures; and having taught them, he sat upright in the sages’ presence and cultivated concentration, and said to the sages: all of you should sit like this. Then the five hundred sages sat in meditation after him; and the sages, having no teacher to expound the Dharma, contemplated the thirty-seven factors that aid enlightenment and reached realization and obtained the way of a pratyekabuddha.

And they all thought: my attainment of the holy path is because of this monkey. And they made offerings to the monkey with incense, flowers, food, and drink; and when the monkey’s life ended they burned its body with fragrant wood.

The Buddha told Ānanda: this monkey is Upagupta, who in the evil destinies made great benefit for many beings; and a hundred years and more after my nirvāṇa the above will come about (Source: Aśokāvadāna, fascicle 6).

Long ago the Buddha was in the kingdom of Rājagṛha and sent an arhat named Xūmàn with the Buddha’s hair and nails to the southern mountains of Kaśmīra to build a stūpa; and five hundred arhats constantly stayed in that monastery, burning incense morning and evening and circling the stūpa and bowing.

At that time in that mountain there were five hundred monkeys who saw the religious men making offerings to the stūpa and the monastery, and led one another to the edge of a deep gully and carried mud and stones and imitated them and made a stūpa, and set up timber and raised a mast and tied poor banners to its head, and bowed morning and evening just as the religious men did.

Then the mountain water rose in flood and the five hundred monkeys were all swept away and drowned at once; and their spirits were at once born in the second heaven, the Trāyastriṃśa, with palaces of the seven treasures and clothing and food coming of themselves.

Each of them thought: where have we come from, to be born in heaven? And with the heavenly eye they saw their original forms, the bodies of monkeys, who had imitated the religious men and made a stūpa and monastery in play; and though their bodies had been swept away and drowned, their spirits had obtained birth in heaven. Now we should go down and repay the kindness of our former corpses.

And each with attendants and flowers, incense, and music came down over the former corpses, and scattered flowers and burned incense and circled them seven times.

At that time in the mountain there were five hundred brahmins of heterodox learning and wrong views who did not believe in offense and merit; and, seeing gods scattering flowers and making music and circling the corpses of monkeys, they wondered and asked: the light and shadow of you gods are lofty indeed — why do you bend your minds to make offerings to these corpses?

The gods said: these corpses are our former bodies — and they set out the whole matter. By this slight merit we obtained birth in heaven, and now we scatter flowers to repay the kindness of our former bodies. Making a stūpa and monastery in play brings merit like this; how much more if one serves the Buddha with an utmost mind — that virtue is beyond comparison. You gentlemen with your wrong views do not believe what is right and true, and toil bitterly for a hundred kalpas and get nothing at all. Better to go together to Mount Gṛdhrakūṭa and pay respect and make offerings, and obtain merit without limit.

So they all gladly went together to where the Buddha was, and prostrated themselves and scattered flowers in offering. The gods said to the Buddha: we, lately in the bodies of monkeys, by the World-Honored One’s grace obtained birth in heaven, and regretted that we had not seen the Buddha, and now come of ourselves for refuge. And they said further: what offending conduct had we in a former life, that we received the bodies of monkeys; and though we made a stūpa and monastery, our bodies were swept away and drowned?

The Buddha told the gods: it does not arise from nothing. In a past age five hundred young brahmins went together into the mountains wishing to seek the way of the immortals. At that time on the mountain there was a śramaṇa who wished to plaster and repair a monastery on the mountain, and who went down into the valley to fetch water, his body light as though flying; and the five hundred brahmins, giving rise to jealousy, laughed at him with one voice: this śramaṇa goes up and down as quick and light as a monkey — what is there wonderful in it? And he went on fetching water like this without stopping, and the mountain water came down at once and it was not long before they were drowned.

The Buddha told the gods: the śramaṇa going up and down at that time is myself; the five hundred young brahmins are the five hundred monkeys. Laughing in play they made an offense and their bodies received the recompense of it. And the Buddha spoke a verse:

“Doing evil in laughter and play, / one receives the recompense with weeping and cries.”

The five hundred gods, hearing what the Buddha said, at once obtained the traces of the path. And the five hundred brahmins, hearing of the recompense of offense and merit, sighed to themselves: we have studied for the immortals for years on end and have not received any fruit; it is not equal to the monkeys who, laughing in play, made merit and obtained birth in heaven. The Buddha’s virtue is truly marvellous. And they bowed their heads at the Buddha’s feet and asked to be his disciples. The Buddha said: come, monks — and they became śramaṇas at once and, applying themselves, attained the path (Source: Dharmapada Sūtra, fascicle 1).

Long ago there was a religious man sitting in meditation and reciting the sūtras beneath a tree, and there was a monkey in the tree who imitated him, and, unawares, fell out of the tree and died — and obtained birth in heaven (Source: Miscellaneous Parables Sūtra).

Long ago the king of a country had a monkey which played with a maidservant again and again without stopping. A brahmin said to the king: you should separate this maidservant and the monkey. The king said: what could bring that about and make them part?

Afterward the maid came in from outside carrying a food vessel and a great stick, and the monkey ran up and pulled at her; and the maid was angry and with her foot pushed the stick and struck at it. The monkey fell into the fire and its fur was burned, and it ran off into a stack of firewood; and it caught and reached the houses and the palaces, and the treasuries were all reduced to ashes. Only then did the king understand what the brahmin had said (Source: Sūtra on the Calamity Brought About by a Monkey Playing with a Maidservant).

Long ago there was a hare king who roamed in the mountains and with his company ate fruit and drank water, and practiced the four states of mind — loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity — and taught his retinue to be humane and harmonious and to do no evil, so that when they were finally rid of these bodies and obtained human form they might receive the teaching of the path; and his retinue rejoiced and followed the teaching and dared not go against his word.

There was a sage dwelling in the trees of the wood, eating fruit and drinking water and cultivating the practice of the path alone, who had never wandered loose and had established the four Brahmā practices — loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity — and who recited the sūtras and kept the path in mind; and his voice was clear and fluent and its sound harmonious and refined, and none who heard it was not glad.

Then the hare king went and drew near him and listened to his recitation of the sūtras, and his mind leapt within him and he never tired of it; and with his retinue he brought fruit and melons and made offerings to the religious man, and so it went on day after day for months and years.

Then the cold of winter came and the sage wished to go back among people; and the hare king, seeing it, was grieved and unhappy, and his heart was full of longing and reluctance and he did not wish him to leave, and asked where he was going: here we see one another day by day and it is our delight, and hungry and thirsty we forget to eat, as though depending on father and mother. I ask you to stay and not go.

The sage answered: I have these four great elements and must carefully guard and protect them. Now the cold of winter has come and the fruits and melons are used up; the mountain waters are frozen and there is no cave to dwell in. And so I wish to leave and depend on the human world, to beg my food and lodge at a monastery. When this winter cold is past I shall come to you again. Do not be downcast.

The hare king answered: we, your retinue, shall go and look for fruit, and shall seek far and near and supply you with enough. I ask you to bend your mind once and take pity and save us. If you go away, our grief and longing may be more than we can bear. And if today there is nothing to set out for you, then let me offer my own body to the religious man.

The religious man, seeing him, was moved and thought with pity: I pity his utmost mind — what is to be done about it? The sage tended a fire and there were live coals before him; and the hare king thought: the religious man keeps silence for my sake — and lifted his own body and threw himself into the fire. The fire blazed up fiercely and the religious man wished to save him, and at once his life passed and he was born in the Tuṣita heaven, and in a bodhisattva’s body his merit was especially honoured and his majesty lofty.

The sage, seeing it — that for the sake of the virtue of the path he had not begrudged his body and life — pitied and grieved for him and reproached himself, and cut off grain and did not eat; and presently his spirit removed and he too was in the Tuṣita heaven.

The Buddha said: the hare king of that time is myself; the sage is the Buddha Dīpaṃkara (Source: Jātaka Sūtra, third and fourth fascicles; also the Sūtra of the Hare King).

In a past age there was a wildcat, hungry and thirsty and emaciated, who watched at a hole to catch a young rat; and when the young rat came out he seized and swallowed it at once. The young rat’s body being small, it went into his belly alive and ate his inner organs, and the wildcat, dazed and stupefied, ran wildly east and west, and so came to its death.

So a foolish beggar who does not guard body and mind well, seeing women, takes hold of the mark of their form (Source: Saṃyukta Āgama, fascicle 47).

The Buddha said: Kalandaka is the name of a mountain rat. At that time the king of Vaiśālī took his entertainers into the mountains to amuse himself, and the king grew weary and slept beneath a tree, and the entertainers scattered to left and right and played about.

In a hole beneath the tree there was a great venomous snake, which smelled the wine on the king and came out meaning to bite him; and there was a rat in the tree which came down from above and cried out and woke the king, and the snake drew back at once. When the king woke he slept again, and the snake came out once more, and the rat cried out again and came down and woke the king.

The king rose and saw the great venomous snake and was greatly frightened, and looked for his entertainers and did not see them; and the king thought to himself: that I am alive now is by the rat’s kindness. Thinking to repay it — there was a village at the foot of the mountain, and he gave order to that village that from now on the whole of his revenue there should be turned over to provide for the rats; and on account of this rat the village was named Kalandaka.

At that time there was in that village an elder with four thousand million gold coins, and the king conferred on him the rank of elder; and on account of the village’s name he was called the elder Kalandaka (Source: Samantapāsādikā, fascicle 6).

Long ago an elder’s household kept a jar of ghee in an upper storey, and the cover was not secure, and a rat got into the ghee jar and ate day and night, and its body grew long. The ghee was all used up and the rat filled the inside of the jar and looked like the color of ghee.

Someone came to buy ghee, and at that time the elder took the ghee and set it over the fire, and the rat in the jar died there in the jar and was itself turned into ghee; and he sold it to the buyer. Measuring it out by pints and pecks, the bones sank to the bottom, and the skull and leg bones each came apart of themselves (Source: Sūtra of the Way of Sweet Dew).