not a
scrap of harness on them. That lean man huddled up on the pole between
them, clad in a few yards of rag, prods them with a pointed stick when
he wants them to go this way and that. He dares not now twist their
tails till he breaks them, or keep open running sores so that he may
prick them in a sensitive part, as he would have done at one time, for
if he did the police would be down on him.

On the side-walk there is a lady, yes, it _is_ a lady--in very baggy
green and gold trousers, with gold anklets tinkling as she walks. Her
head and face are swathed in a "sari" or shawl of shot gold and purple,
which only allows her heavy black eyes to appear above its folds. The
street is alive with men in white; some wear long white coats buttoned
down over the kind of white petticoat called a _dhoti_, others have the
curious habit of wearing their shirts outside their trousers like a
kilt, but you soon get used to this, and cease to notice it. That fellow
in a tall extinguisher cap made of lamb's wool is a Persian.

In the midst of all this queer crowd, which looks like a fancy-dress
ball let loose in broad daylight, run the curving steel tram-lines.
There are shades of every complexion to be seen. That very fresh,
pink-faced lady, who has just gone dashing by in her smart "tum-tum" or
pony-cart, is at one end of the scale--she is probably newly out from
home,--and that ebony-black native woman of so low a caste that she goes
uncovered in the public street is at the other, but even she, poor
thing, cares enough about her personal appearance to wear a gold ring
through one of her nostrils!

[Illustration: A PERSIAN.]

Now we can see the long outline of Malabar Hill quite clearly, and below
all its trees and gardens and the great houses rising among them, but at
one part, the highest, the hill is kept for other uses. Look up into the
clear blue sky overhead, do you see a black speck? Not got it yet? Wait
a moment and try again. There! That is right, and there is another and
another; you can't help seeing them now. Their flight is the slow heavy
flight of clumsy birds. What do you suppose they are? Vultures. They
live, as you know, on carrion, which is dead flesh, and the vultures of
Bombay are peculiarly favoured, for they banquet on human bodies.

In this district there are a large number of Parsees or
fire-worshippers, and these people have their peculiar ceremonies. Under
the British Crown every man is free to carry ou