May the dog be made firm for us—may it stand steady and unwavering. Before us lies the slender measuring stick, a delicate rod by which all things are gauged. When the word “āminoniti” is pronounced, prosperity follows; yet, when that word is repeated, it signals a breaking, a disruption in the flow. Varuṇa, the lord of cosmic order, walks with the riches. There are a hundred powers of Bharati, the goddess of speech, and with them, a hundred golden horses, a hundred golden chariots, and a hundred golden axes. The words “ahula, kusa, varttaka” echo, marking the abundance. All is stirred as if by the hoof of a mighty beast. A woman appears, emerging from the forest, and with her, the wilds come alive. Those who dwell in the forest seize the boat, claiming it as their own. “This is my intoxicant,” someone declares, acknowledging the power that enlivens their spirit. The trees stand together, tall and united, bearing witness. Offerings are prepared: cooked food is set forth, and vegetables are brought as gifts. The fig, the acacia, and the dhava tree are present, each sacred in their own right. The name Araduparama is spoken, though its meaning remains mysterious. There lies one struck down, stretched upon the earth; the man is spread out, unmoving. “I do not milk,” says the voice, “thus for the nourisher.” There is a mention of taking “exceedingly half a verse from another’s wealth,” suggesting restraint or perhaps a warning against excess. Two elephants appear, their strength and the firmness of their hands evident. Two rays are stretched out, and a man crushes them. Yet, to the maiden, it is said, “It is not so, maiden, as you think.” Again, two rays of the mother are withdrawn, except for the man, and the same words are repeated. By restraining two ears, the middle is sent forth—still, the maiden is told her thoughts are not as they seem. Whether one lies face up or stands, concealment persists, and the maiden’s understanding is gently corrected again and again. In the smooth, only the smooth is hidden; in what is not smooth, with fallen inner hair, all is lost in the abyss. Always, the assurance is given: “It is not so, maiden, as you think.” In all directions—east, west, north, and south—the rod is raised in gentle rebuke. Here, calves sit together with men, their heads turned to the cardinal points. The cooking pot is set down, facing each direction, as are the broad dish, the ladle in the vessel, and the dripping spoon. Those who come for food, who go for rice, who stand for fruit, find themselves in the presence of the singer. With the beating of the drum, he invokes the strength of the divine. In the hollow of the vessel, at night, the knot and foot are placed; let the highest birth be born, and the lesser birth proceed along its destined path. Gourds and wild cucumbers, leaves of the fig and palāśa, the breath of the anthill, the hoof of the horse and the cow—all these are gathered as the singer calls upon divine strength. The gods themselves have leapt here; the officiant is urged to move swiftly, for he is good, strong, and energetic. When the wife is seen, when she is being sacrificed for, the singer again invokes the divine strength. The priest, by the viṣṭīma, joins in this invocation. The Ādityas brought the sacrificial fee to the singers from the Angiras. But it was the singer who brought it back—indeed, the singer took it for us. Of the other, we know nothing; nor do we lead the other in sacrifice. Thus, all is completed in the order of the divine.