that I have
taken up my quarters in the station, the police-superintendent comes over
and begs permission to send over my supper, as he is evidently anxious to
cultivate my good opinion, or, at all events, to make sure of giving no
offence in failing to accommodate me with sleeping quarters at the thana.
He supplements the efforts of the Mohammedan employe, by sending over a
dish of sweetened chuppaties.

On the street leading out of Miran Serai is a very handsome and
elaborately ornamented temple. Passing by early in the morning, I pay it
a brief, unceremonious visit of inspection, kneeling on the steps and
thrusting my helmeted head in to look about, not caring to go to the
trouble of removing my shoes. Inside is an ancient Brahman, engaged in
sweeping out the floral offerings of the previous day; he favors me with
the first indignant glance I have yet received in India. When I have
satisfied my curiosity and withdrawn from the door-way, he comes out
himself and shuts the beautifully chased brazen door with quite an angry
slam. The day previous was the anniversary of Krishna's birth, and the
blood of sacrificial goats and bullocks is smeared profusely about the
altar. It is, probably, the enormity of an unhallowed unbeliever in one
god, thrusting his infidel head inside the temple at this unseemly hour
of the morning, while the blood of the mighty Krishna's sacrificial
victims is scarcely dry on the walls, that arouses the righteous wrath of
the old heathen priest--as well, indeed, it might.

Passing through a village abounding in toddy-palms, I avail myself of an
opportunity to investigate the merits of a beverage that I have been
somewhat curious about since reaching India, having heard it spoken of so
often. The famous "palm-wine" is merely the sap of the toddy-palm,
collected much as is the sap from the maple-sugar groves of America,
although the palm-juice is generally, if not always, obtained from the
upper part of the trunk. When fresh, its taste resembles sweetened water;
in a day or two fermentation sets in, and it changes to a beverage that,
except for slightly alcoholic properties, might readily be mistaken for
vinegar and water.

Every little village or hamlet one passes through, south of Agra, seems
laudably determined to own a god of some sort; those whose finances fail
to justify them in sporting a nice, red-painted god with gilt trimmings,
sometimes console themselves with a humble little two-dollar