Two Autograph Letters Signed and a Holograph Poem from Khushal Chand to his 'master' [Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Barnes Peacock of the 31st Punjab Regiment], all three items written, as the author declares, 'submissively'.

The three items give a hint of a certain aspect of Anglo-India relations at the high point of the Raj. Letter One (23 May 1912): 2pp., 12mo. On aged and ruckled paper, with closed tears on second leaf along crease lines. Adressed to 'My Lord'. After praising Peacock fulsomely, and predicting a 'bright future befitting your mental endowments', he continues: 'You might remember that on the Lahore R[ailwa]y platform (when I went to pay you my respects & bid farewell on your transfer) you said you would be going home in June & (probably) to get married also.' He wishes to present Peacock with a wedding present of 'a pair of shoes - gold laced slippers of the Punjab make - as an humble token of my warmest esteem on the most auspicious occasion of my respected master's wedlock'. Letter Two (26 July 1912): 2pp., 12mo. On aged and ruckled paper. With Peacock's birthday approaching in two days, he wishes that he may 'live another hundred years (in the words of Vedas "Jivem shardah shatam") and enjoy new joys brought by each succeeding anniversary'. In a long postscript he explains 'the reference to my lords marriage in my last': 'I guessed it from your smile in response to my undernoted remarks on the Lahore R[ailwa]y Platform. "Sir" I said "you being rather strict I shall perhaps be enjoying a greater access when Lady Peacock comes to India or your return from leave"'. Poem: 2pp., 16mo. Twenty lines in couplets, titled 'Happy Birthday'. On two aged and ruckled leaves, with a small punch hole at the head of each.The first four lines cribbed from Goldsmith's 'Deserted Village', and garbled: 'How often have I blest this day | When toil remitting lent its turn to play | For only Sabbath safe from labor freem | We lead not sports beneath the spreading tree.' The following sixteen lines of the poem are apparently all Khushal Chand's own, beginning: 'Heaven all the more makes it happy, gay | Yes! it is yours - your own birthday. | Blest Officer rich of holy thought & werk [sic] | A doctor a learned man & a Clerk. | Given a godly disposition from noble birth | And smiling countenance encircled in mirth'. The final couplet reads: 'May He grant you power on land | And lead Himself by the Hand.'