tite the time the bag is empty.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

An hour or two over burning sand, and I spot a doe and a fawn amongst
the grey-green thorn bushes, and away they go, skipping and jumping as
if anyone thought of interfering with their gentle lives!... Two or
three more hours tramp without a shot, and we come to the by-road again,
distinguished from the rest of the dry land by wheel-ruts, and the pad
of bare feet. We have six miles to walk to our carriage--my kingdom for
a pony! but we must trudge along--the guide, shikari, and syce trailing
away behind. They are rather tired, and the writer rather despondent.

A lift of the eye to the left, and a thousand yards off, I see faint
forms of does, then I spot a buck!--question, can we spare the time?
four miles to walk, fifteen to drive, and the night train to catch at
seven. We risk the time, and Fortune smiles, for we have not gone 500
yards off the path, when another lot grows out of the ground to my left,
and again a beautiful buck with splendid horns in their midst--a quick
standing shot got him through the heart, and no pain or death struggle.

Then more trudging--it is hot, and the sand deep, and the thirst the
worst I've had--so dry we were, that we could hardly speak--but no
matter, we have succeeded, and there is a bottle of soda water four
miles ahead; it will be warm though. The dust rises along the horizon
and moves along in gentle whirlwinds, and the few trees there are, are
close cropped of both branches and foliage, to feed the natives' goats
and sheep. It is a famished, parched land, with far too many people.
Driving to Agra, we came across another herd of deer, and got the best
buck almost within a hundred yards of the trunk road.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

7.30 we are in the train again--Pullman car restaurant train--electric
light and cool air, and a sweep of blue moonlit plain and sky passing
the windows, a change from the heat and the baked white plain of the
day. It is the smoothest going carriage we have been in, in India, and
there are waiters in white to bring iced drinks, and an excellent dinner
... And we think of lunch again, in the grove by the Temple, and the
peacocks bustling their grandeur out of the verdure.

If I could invent stories, I'd come and live at Agra, and write about
the Moguls, as Irving wrote the tales of the Alhambra, poor litt