was sorely
puzzled how to provide refreshments for his princely guests. The cow,
however, proved herself equal to the emergency, and--"Obedient to
her saintly lord, Viands to suit each taste outpoured. Honey she gave,
and roasted grain, Mead, sweet with flowers, and sugar-cane. Each
beverage of flavor rare, And food of every sort, were there. Hills of hot
rice, and sweetened cakes, And curdled milk, and soup in lakes. Vast
beakers flowing to the brim, With sugared drink prepared for him; And
dainty sweetmeats, deftly made, Before the hermit's guest were laid."
In all Brahman communities are sacred bulls, allowed to roam at their own
sweet will among the crops and help themselves.
Chowel and dood (rice-and-milk) is obtained at noon from a village
eating-stall; the rice is dished up to all customers in basins improvised
from a broad banyan-leaf, so that nobody's caste may be jeopardized by
handling spoons or dishes that others have touched. Most of the natives
manage to eat with their fingers, but they bring for the Sahib a stiff
green leaf which is bent into the form of a scoop and made to answer the
purpose of a spoon. The milk is served in valueless earthenware basins
that are tossed into the street and broken after being once used. There
is a regular caste of artisans in India whose hereditary profession is
the manufacture of this cheap pottery; almost every village has its
family of pottery-makers, who manufacture them for the use of the
community. The people are curious about the bicycle, and the Sahib's
peculiar manner of travelling without the usual native servant and eating
rice at an ordinary village stall. They are, however, far from being in
the least obtrusive or annoying; on the contrary, their respectfulness
and conservatism is something to admire; although they gather about the
bicycle in a compact ring, not a hand in all the company is meddlesome
enough to touch it.
Through the smooth kunkah-laid bazaars of Jullundar, so different from
the unridable bazaars we have heretofore been made familiar with, and I
wheel past the Queen's Gardens and into the cantonment along lovely
avenues and perfect roads. The detachment of Royal Artillery, whose
quarters my road leads directly past, is composed largely of the gallant
sons of Erin, and as I wheel into the cantonment, an artilleryman seated
on a eharpoy beneath a spreading neem-tree, sings out to his comrades,
"Be jabbers, bhoys; here's the Yankee phat's tr
|