es of
water into the atmosphere. Currents in the air have carried them for
hundreds of miles over the sea and over the plains of Bengal, till the
chill of the Himalaya Mountains has caused them to condense and
fall in snow and rain. But some have been carried farther. They have
been transported right over the Himalaya at a height of at least
20,000 feet, till they have finally fallen in Tibet. It is a striking fact
that some of the water in the Ganges is from rivers in Tibet which
have cut their way clean through the mighty range of the Himalaya.
The Arun River, for example, rises in Tibet and cuts through the
Himalaya by a deep gorge in the region between Mount Everest and
Kinchinjunga. These rivers are, indeed, much older than the
mountains. They were running their course before the Himalaya
were upheaved, and they kept wearing out a channel for themselves
as the mountains rose and slowly over-towered them.

Reverence, therefore, is due to the Ganges on account of its vast
antiquity. Reverence also is due because it will flow on like now for
hundreds of thousands and perhaps for millions of years to come.
Round and round in never-ceasing cycle the water is drawn up from
the ocean, is carried along in the clouds, descends upon the
mountains, and gathers in the Ganges to flow once more into the sea.
The Ganges may gradually change its course as it eats into first one
bank and then the other. But it will flow on and on and on for as far
into the future as the human eye can ken.

And its power, so terrifying to primitive man--even to us at times
--will become more and more a power for good. Already great canals
have been taken from its main stream and its tributaries, and
millions of acres have been irrigated by its water, thus helping to
bring to birth great crops of wheat and rice, cotton, sugar-cane, and
oil-seeds. Schemes for utilising the water-power in its fall through
the mountains by converting it into electric power are in
contemplation, so that railways may be run by it and power for great
industries be furnished. Once more, too, the course of the river may
become a line of communication as sea-planes are used to fly from
town to town and alight upon its surface.

So as we come to know the river in its deepest significance, our
impression of its everlastingness and its irresistible power remains.
But our sense of fear diminishes. We feel that the river is ready to
co-operate with us. That it is capable of be