ple of
hundred yards apart, the range of their weapons covering the entire
crop-area around. Sometimes I endeavor to secure one of these excellent
subjects for my camera, but the youngsters invariably clamber down from
their perch at seeing me dismount, and become invisible among the thick
cane.

To the music of loud, rolling thunder, I speed swiftly over the last few
miles, and dash beneath the porch of the post-office just in the nick of
time to escape a tremendous downpour of rain. How it pours, sometimes, in
India, converting the roads into streams and the surrounding country into
a shallow lake in the space of a few minutes. Hundreds of youths, naked
save for the redeeming breech-cloth, disport themselves in the great warm
shower-bath, chasing one another sportively about and enjoying the
downpour immensely.

The rain ceases, and, with water flinging from my wheel, I seek the civil
lines and the dak bungalow three miles farther down the road. Very good
meals are dished up by the chowkee-dar at this bungalow, who seems an
intelligent and enterprising fellow; but the lean and slippered
punkah-wallah is a far less satisfactory part of the accommodation. Twice
during the night the punkah ceases to wave and the demon of prickly heat
instantly wakes me up; and both times do I have to turn out and arouse
him from the infolding arms of Morpheus. On the second occasion the old
fellow actually growls at being disturbed. He is wide-awake and
obsequious enough, however, at backsheesh-time in the morning.

The clock at the little English station-church chimes the hour of six as
I resume my journey next morning along a glorious avenue of overarching
shade-trees to Bhogan, where my road, which from Delhi has been a branch
road, again merges into the Grand Trunk. Groves of tall toddy-palms are a
distinguishing feature of Bhogan, and a very pretty little Hindoo temple
marks the southern extremity of the town. A striking red and gilt shrine
in a secluded grove of peepuls arrests my attention a few miles out of
town, and, repairing thither, my rude intrusion fills with silent
surprise a company of gentle Brahman youths and maidens paying their
matutinal respects to the representation of Kamadeva, the Hindoo cupid
and god of love. They seem overwhelmed with embarrassment at the
appearance of a Sahib, but they say nothing. I explain that my object is
merely a "tomasha" of the exquisitely carved shrine, and a young Brahman,
with his