, swaying its lean unlovely body to and fro and up
and down in time with the tune. He puts down his pipe and makes a motion
to it as if he were mesmerising it, passing his hands this way and that,
until it comes to him and puts its flat head on his shoulder, nozzling
into his neck. It makes one shudder to see it! It coils round his body
again and again; he is enveloped in the coils. I should not care for
that profession! It is not every man that can do it, only some of the
natives have a gift for it, and they really have a power over snakes,
even those in a wild state, for they make them come forth out of holes
when called and remain passive at their feet. This man deserves a good
tip. Bakshish they call it here too; that word accompanies you round the
world!

[Illustration: A CINGALEE WAITER.]

I think we'll go for a jaunt, if you're ready, as the light falls
quickly here. There is no difficulty in getting two rickshaws, and how
they spin along. They say the men who drag them don't live many years,
as the constant running wears them out, but they look healthy enough and
show no more exhaustion after running than a horse does after trotting.
Each one has twisted up his dhoti, as the white skirts they wear are
called, showing his bare brown legs; the upper garment is simply a
European cotton vest. We spin along the bright red road by the sea,
seeing the long lines of foam breaking gently on the beach, and then
turn into shady roads where trees with brilliant yellow leaves light the
wayside. Then we pass through a native village with huts of thatch,
while plantains, which at home we call bananas, grow on broad-leaved
plants by each door. There is dust enough here, and mangy-looking pariah
dogs, and cocks and hens, and multitudes of bright beady-eyed children
with hardly any clothing on. There is plenty of foliage and greenery and
a freshness and richness of colouring that is much better than the grey
leafless harshness of an Egyptian village, for this land gets plenty of
rain. Everyone seems good-humoured and happy, and the children look fat
enough; some of them are very black, with woolly heads, of a different
type from the others. These are the children of a race called Moormen.

When we get down near the hotel I want you to come into this jeweller's
shop in the arcade; you'll see a strange sight. A crowd of tourists are
sitting round a table which is covered with little heaps of shining
stones, unset and piled on squ