arrowed
down to the lowest limit, and hydra-headed unrest has invaded every
department of life. Maybe, this is for the better, but I, for one,
cannot account it wholly to the good.

[Illustration: The Ganges Again]

These lovely days of mine at the riverside passed by like so many
dedicated lotus blossoms floating down the sacred stream. Some rainy
afternoons I spent in a veritable frenzy, singing away old _Vaishnava_
songs to my own tunes, accompanying myself on a harmonium. On other
afternoons, we would drift along in a boat, my brother Jyotirindra
accompanying my singing with his violin. And as, beginning with the
_Puravi_,[50] we went on varying the mode of our music with the
declining day, we saw, on reaching the _Behaga_,[50] the western sky
close the doors of its factory of golden toys, and the moon on the east
rise over the fringe of trees.

Then we would row back to the landing steps of the villa and seat
ourselves on a quilt spread on the terrace facing the river. By then a
silvery peace rested on both land and water, hardly any boats were
about, the fringe of trees on the bank was reduced to a deep shadow, and
the moonlight glimmered over the smooth flowing stream.

The villa we were living in was known as 'Moran's Garden'. A flight of
stone-flagged steps led up from the water to a long, broad verandah
which formed part of the house. The rooms were not regularly arranged,
nor all on the same level, and some had to be reached by short flights
of stairs. The big sitting room overlooking the landing steps had
stained glass windows with coloured pictures.

One of the pictures was of a swing hanging from a branch half-hidden in
dense foliage, and in the checkered light and shade of this bower, two
persons were swinging; and there was another of a broad flight of steps
leading into some castle-like palace, up and down which men and women
in festive garb were going and coming. When the light fell on the
windows, these pictures shone wonderfully, seeming to fill the
river-side atmosphere with holiday music. Some far-away long-forgotten
revelry seemed to be expressing itself in silent words of light; the
love thrills of the swinging couple making alive with their eternal
story the woodlands of the river bank.

The topmost room of the house was in a round tower with windows opening
to every side. This I used as my room for writing poetry. Nothing could
be seen from thence save the tops of the surrounding trees,