The volume opens not with a story but with a scene: T. W. Rhys Davids recalls riding along the Galle-to-Colombo road, where he finds villagers listening to monks recite Buddhist birth-stories under palm trees by moonlight. This framing device establishes the tales as oral performances, rooted in a specific landscape of breaking waves and cocoanut palms. The editor, Marie L. Shedlock, then presents a selection of Jataka stories—ancient fables where each hero, human or animal, is identified as the Buddha in a former life. The excerpts show a consistent narrative pattern: a virtuous character (the Bodisat) acts with generosity and restraint, while a foil figure succumbs to greed or anger, leading to ruin. The language is plain, the moral contrasts sharp, and the settings shift from village markets to riverbanks to royal courts.

The Bodisat as Moral Center

Across the excerpts, the Bodisat appears as a figure of calm agency. In the story of the golden dish, he is a merchant who, upon recognizing the dish's true value, pays far more than asked and keeps only eight pennies, a bag, and a yoke. His actions are deliberate and generous, in stark contrast to the first hawker who throws the dish down and later dies of grief. The Bodisat's virtue is not passive; he actively gives gifts, keeps the Five Commandments, and reconciles quarreling men. His presence transforms ordinary objects—a dish becomes gold, a marketplace becomes a hall with benches and water. The narrative emphasizes his power of virtue, a force that alters material reality and provokes extreme reactions in others.

Greed and Its Physical Consequences

The covetous hawker's downfall is described in visceral terms: he scatters his money, tears his clothes, and pursues the boat. When he cannot catch the Bodisat, his heart grows hot, blood flows from his mouth, and his heart breaks like tank-mud in the sun. This is not a quiet moral lesson but a dramatic, bodily punishment. The simile ties his destruction to the natural world—the cracking of dried mud—linking inner vice to outer decay. Such vivid physicality recurs in other tales; the excerpts hint at a pattern where greed, hatred, or deceit manifest as sudden illness, madness, or death. The stories use these extreme outcomes to underscore the stakes of moral choice, making the consequences immediate and tangible.

Recurring Motifs: Water, Boats, and Boundaries

Water appears repeatedly as a threshold. The Bodisat crosses a river by boat after paying eight pennies; the hawker is left on the bank, unable to follow. The river separates the virtuous from the vengeful, the saved from the lost. In the foreword, the sea breaks on rocks while the villagers gather on grass—a boundary between wild ocean and cultivated land. The boatman's role is minor but pivotal: he is paid, he stops or continues at the Bodisat's command. These small details—a coin, a yoke, a boat—anchor the fantastical elements in concrete, everyday objects. The stories move between domestic interiors (the grandmother's hut) and open spaces (the river, the village square), creating a geography of moral action.

Narrative Framing and Oral Rhythm

The tales are introduced by a frame that emphasizes listening and community. Rhys Davids describes the audience chatting, leaving and returning, chewing betel—a relaxed, participatory setting. The stories themselves often begin with formulaic phrases like "At that time the Bodisat was born as…" and end with the Bodisat passing away "according to his deeds." This cyclical structure mirrors the Buddhist concept of rebirth and moral causation. The editor, Shedlock, preserves this oral quality through short paragraphs and direct dialogue. The tales are not presented as literary artifacts but as living narratives, meant to be heard and shared. The frame reminds us that these stories have been told for centuries, adapting to new audiences while retaining their core patterns.

Readers approaching this collection should attend to the small, precise details that carry moral weight: a coin counted, a dish thrown, a boat launched. The stories reward attention to their structure—the way each tale builds toward a decisive moment of choice or consequence. The foreword's moonlit scene offers a key to the tone: these are not stern sermons but gentle, communal entertainments that nonetheless insist on the reality of cause and effect. Let the tales work as they were meant to: as stories first, lessons second.