But you don't really want to have a great crowd of friends, do you? It

is only weak-minded people like myself who flop on any stranger's neck

with protestations of undying affection. It is the easiest thing in

the world for any Douglas that ever was to make friends: I think

because we are always willing to laugh at the feeblest jest. Nothing

endears one so quickly to one's fellow-beings as laughing at their

jokes. We have a way, too, of making friends with any casual stranger

we may meet in trains, or coach, or steamer. You superior people,

who, ignoring your fellow-passengers, sit in a corner and read _The

Spectator_, don't know what you miss. The thrilling stories I have

listened to! Once I heard a circumstantial story of a wreck in the

South Seas told by the plucky little wife of the captain, who had

stayed by her husband's side--"Papa" she called him--while the ship

slowly sank on a coral reef, and then drifted about in an open boat

for days before they were rescued.

It is Mother, however, who meets with the oddest adventures

travelling. One day last summer I saw her off in the Scotch Express

from Euston, comfortably seated in a corner with books and papers,

expecting she would have a nice quiet day. The occupant of the other

corner was a Russian lady, and the friend who saw her off asked Mother

if she would see she had lunch all right, for she knew no English.

This Mother readily promised, and the train started. Mother tried

once or twice to speak to the creature, but, receiving only grunts in

reply, began a book. She hadn't read the first chapter when the old

gentleman opposite said sternly, "Your friend is fainting," and

turning, Mother was just in time to catch the Russian as she slid

to the floor. She wrestled with her for an hour, reviving her with

smelling-salts, and making her comfortable with her air-cushion and

rug, distracted all the time by the yelling of young infants somewhere

near. As soon as she could leave her she went to see what was wrong,

and found twin-babies making day hideous with their din, while their

poor mother lay stretched on a seat, too ill to cope with them.

She was a missionary's wife, it turned out, on her way home, with no

nurse and much malaria, so, of course, Mother had to stay and nurse

the twins until luncheon was ready, when another Good Samaritan came

and took a turn. While having luncheon she was hailed by a friend,

lately left a widow, who insisted on Mother accompanying her to her

compartment, where she wept on her shoulder while telling her all the

details of her husband's last illness; then back again to nurse the

Russian and the babies until the journey's end, when she emerged

almost as hot, and crumpled, and exhausted as if she had run behind

all the way.

How heartily, my friend, I agree with you about the tiresomeness of

balls. I think it must be old age approaching, but I can't see any use

in going off at the hour when, under happier circumstances, I would

be thinking of bed, to a hot, crowded ballroom; and just at present

Calcutta is simply congested with balls. I don't like things that cost

a lot; simple little pleasures please me much more. To drive out to

Tollygunge of an afternoon, have tea and a game of croquet, look at

the picture papers, and come quietly home again, is to me the height

of bliss.

Tollygunge is a club, some miles out of Calcutta, with a race-course,

golf-links, croquet-lawns--a very delectable spot. The correct thing

is to drive out on Sunday morning and have breakfast out in the open

air. Then one sees everyone one knows, and it is very gay; but I think

it is much pleasanter to drive out quietly in the afternoon.

The road to Tollygunge lies partly through the jungle, past clusters

of native huts where little chocolate-coloured babies roll and chatter

in the sunlit dust. You know, the jungle is quite near Calcutta.

When I lie at nights and listen to the jackals howling, I remember

Kipling's story, and wonder if we were driven out and the jungle were

let in, how long it would be before Calcutta became a habitation for

the beasts of the field.

Yesterday I drove out with Mrs. Townley and G., and three tired people

we were, too tired even to play the gentle game of croquet; glad to

sit still in comfortable chairs on the greensward and steep ourselves

in the peace and quietness.

At tea, Chil the kite, hovering in mid-air, watched us jealously.

Suddenly there was a swoop, a dark flutter of wings, a startled squeak

from G., and our cake was gone. That's India!

Tea finished, while we still sat loath to leave, a curious odour

forced itself upon our attention. G. sniffed. _I_ sniffed. "Whatever

is it?" asked G. Mrs. Townley pointed riverwards to where a thin

column of blue-grey smoke rose and hung like a cloud in the hot, still

air.

"It's a burning ghat," she said. "They are burning a body."

And _that_ is India!

When one is feeling fairly peaceful and secure, something ghastly,

like the smell of burning Hindoo, recalls to one the uncertainty of

all things. We rose to go home, feeling depressed, the smell pursuing

us.

I have two pieces of news for this letter.

First, Boggley can take a few days' holiday at Christmas, so he means

to take me to Darjeeling to see if we can catch a glimpse of the

snows. We shall only be there from Saturday afternoon till Monday at

noon, and Boggley says that Kangchenjunga is often cloud-covered for

weeks, so it is a mere chance whether we shall see it. But surely,

surely Kangchenjunga won't be coy with me. I came to India, of course,

in the first place to see Boggley, but in the second place to see the

snows, and I can't believe that the gods will be so unkind as to deny

a humble worshipper of great mountains a sight of the vision glorious.

The other piece of news is quite important.

Boggley has got a new billet. What it is I shan't try to explain,

for I don't understand the game of General Post which is played so

frequently among Government officials, but it means that he will have

to go on a tour of inspection all over everywhere, and, what is more,

I shall go too. Isn't it fine?

Boggley actually hesitated about accepting, because he thought I

should so hate to leave Calcutta and its gaieties to wander in the

jungle. It isn't that I don't enjoy Calcutta; I do, and I am most

grateful to the people who have given me such a good time; but I pine

to see something of the real India. Calcutta might be a suburb of

London. I want to see the native of India, not the fat babu; I want to

live in tents and be a gipsy; I want to have Boggley all to myself. We

have hardly time at present to pass the time of day with each other.

Boggley tries to frighten me with tales of dâk-bungalows and jungly

cooking, but I won't be frightened; I am looking forward to it all too

much.

We don't go till the beginning of January, so I shall be able to

attend the Drawing-Room and a few other _tamashas_ before we depart.

This will have to do for a letter this week. I must clean some gloves

now. That is the only useful thing I do, clean G.'s gloves and my own.

We dirty so many pairs of long white gloves, and it is cheaper to

clean them at home. You do it with petrol and a small piece of

flannel, and the result isn't bad, though somewhat streaky. G's part

is to sit on my bed and watch me do it, assisted by Bella on the

floor. It reminds me of the inhabitants of the Scilly Islands, who,

it is said, earn a precarious livelihood by taking in each other's

washings!

_Calcutta, Dec. 26_.

When Kipling wrote his _Christmas in India_ I think he must have been

in a dâk-bungalow down with fever, otherwise he would hardly have

painted such a very gloomy picture. I, at least, didn't find it a

mocking Christmas--but then India isn't my grim stepmother, as

Victor Ormonde pointed out to me the other night, I can afford to be

home-sick, can afford to let myself think of the "black dividing sea

and alien plain," because here I have no continuing city. It is the

real exiles, "shackled in a lifelong tether," who may not think, but

must go doggedly through their day's darg.

I found it an agreeable day, from the morning when I got my presents

and various offerings of flowers, to the evening, when we dined with

some very kind people, and had an amusing time playing childish games.

I have often seen pictures headed "Christmas in the Tropics," and

looked with sentimental eyes at the people grouped among palm-trees on

a verandah, while the girl at the piano sang what was evidently a song

about "the dear homeland," to judge from the far-away look in the eyes

of all present. It seems a pity to disillusion you, but it isn't at

all like that. To begin with, it was quite chilly, and we were very

glad of the big fire burning in the grate, and we did not look pensive

or far-away, but ate our dinner with great content. I think, perhaps,

Christmas fare is even more uninteresting in India than at home;

turkey tastes more like white flannel, and plum-pudding is stodgier,

and there are no white and scarlet berries or robins; but otherwise it

is really a nicer day than in England.

Of course I thought a lot about the home people. I imagined Peter

waking and groping for his stocking. Oh, _have_ you forgotten what

it felt like to waken up and remember it was Christmas morning? I

sometimes wish I could still hang up my stocking. There is nothing in

Grown-up Land that equals the thrill the delicious bulginess of the

stocking, gripped in the darkness, gave one.

I think they would miss me a little at home. I know Mother would often

say, "I wonder what Olivia is doing now!"

And what kind of Christmas had you? A very festive one, I hope.

Very many thanks for the book you sent me. You couldn't possibly have

given me anything I like better. Somehow, I have never possessed a

copy of _A Child's Garden of Verses_, and this one, so exquisitely,

specially bound, will be a great treasure. I like, too, your reason

for choosing it. It is nice of you to like my childish reminiscences,

but it is rash to say you wish you had known us then. Looking at us

now, so quiet, so well-behaved, _such_ ornaments to society, you would

be surprised what villains we once were--at least on week-days! We had

what R.L.S. calls a "covenanting childhood." Looking back, it seems

to me that our childhood was a queer mixture of Calvinism and fairy

tales. Calvinism, even now, I associate with ham and eggs--I suppose

because Sabbath morning was the only time we ever tasted that

delicacy. Between bustling Saturday night, when we wistfully watched

our toys being locked away, and cheery Monday morning, when things

began again, there was a great gulf fixed, and that was the Sabbath

Day. What strenuous Sabbath Days we had! First there was worship and

the Catechism. (The only time I ever wished to be English was when

I thought I might have dallied with "What is your name?" instead of

wrestling with such deep things as "What is man's chief end?") After

worship was over we were allowed to walk in the garden till it was

time for the morning service. That was the Forenoon Diet of Worship,

then came the Afternoon Diet of Worship. Having sat like rocks through

them both, we proceeded to the Sabbath School, and then went home to

tea, and cake, and jam, and an evening filled with bound volumes of

_The Christian Treasury_, where we wrestled with tales of religious

bigotry and persecution until we seemed to breathe the very atmosphere

of dark and mouldy cells; and became daringly familiar with the

thumb-screw and the rack, the Inquisition and other devildoms of

Spain. I used to wonder pitifully why it had never occurred to the

poor victims to say their prayers in bed, and thus save themselves

such fiery trials.

I wonder why I pretend we found our Sundays a trial. Looking back, I

love every minute of them. Father could make any day delightful; and

what a through-the-week Father he was! Sometimes he came to tea with

us in the nursery and made believe there was a fairy called Annabel

Lee in the teapot, carrying on conversations with her that sent eerie

thrills down our several spines. Afterwards he would read out of a

little green and gold book that contained for us all the romance of

the ages between its elegant covers. From Father we heard of Angus the

Subtle, Morag of the Misty Way, and the King of Errin, who rides and

rides and whose road is to the End of Days. Sometimes, laying books

aside, he told us old tales that he had heard from his mother, who in

turn had heard them from hers--of the Red Etain of Ireland who lived

in Belligand, and who stole the King's daughter, the King of fair

Scotland; and the pathetic tale of the bannock that went to see the

world, with its cynical end: "Ah, well! We'll all be in the tod's hole

in less than a hunner years."

It was Father who gave us first a love for books, and taught us the

magic of lovely words. And it was Father who tried to place our

stumbling little childish feet in the Narrow Way, and to turn our eyes

ever towards a better country--"that is an heavenly!" I suppose it

was the dimly-understood talk of the better country that gave John and

me the idea of our Kingdom.

It was a great secret once, but now I may tell without breaking faith.

Boggley and the Bird were prosaic people, caring more for bird-nesting

and Red Indian hunting than games of make-believe, so they never knew.

It was part of the sunny old garden, our Kingdom, and was called

Nontland because it was ruled by one Nont. He had once been a common

ninepin, but having had a hole bored through his middle with a red-hot

wire he became possessed of a mystic power and personality. Even

we--his creators, so to speak--stood somewhat in awe of him.

The River Beulah flowed through Nontland, and it was bounded on the

north by the Celestial Mountains; on the south by the red brick wall,

where the big pears grew; on the west by the Rose of Sharon tree; and

on the east by the pig-sty. That last sounds something of a descent,

but it wasn't really a pig-sty, and I can't think why it was called

so, for, to my knowledge, it had never harboured anything but two

innocent white Russian rabbits with pink eyes. It was situated at the

foot of the kitchen-garden, next door to the hen-houses; the roof,

made of pavement flags, was easy to climb, and, sloping as it did to

the top of the wall overlooking the high-road, was greatly prized by

us as a watch-tower from which we could see the world go by.

To get into our Kingdom we knocked at the Wicket Gate, murmuring as we

did so:

"El Dorado

Yo he trovado,"

and it opened--with a push. We hadn't an idea then, nor have I now,

what the words meant. We got them out of a book called _The Spanish

Brothers_, and thought them splendidly mysterious.

Besides ourselves, and Nont, and the Russian rabbits, there was only

one other denizen of our Kingdom--a turkey with a broken leg, a

lonely, lovable fowl which John, out of pity, raised to the peerage

and the office of Prime Minister. I have a vivid recollection of

riding in hot haste on a rake to tell the King--not in proper fairy

fashion that the skies were fallen, but that Lord Turkey of Henhouse

was dead.

John, I remember, always carried some fern seed in his trouser-pocket.

He said it made him invisible--a delusion I loyally supported. It

seems to me the sun always shone in those days, the time was ever

three o'clock in the afternoon, and faery lay just adown the road!

It has just occurred to me, and it is an awesome thought, that you

must converse every day, and all day, in the German language. I

believe I have forgotten all I ever knew of German, though it isn't so

very long ago since I wrestled in tears and confused darkness of mind

with that uncouth tongue. Don't forget your native tongue, and

don't dare write me a letter in German, or, like the Editor of _The

Spectator_, I shall say, "This correspondence must now cease!"

Since last I wrote life has been one long changing of garments and

moving from one show to another. Tuesday was Viceroy's Cup Day at the

races, a very pretty sight. One side of the ground was crowded by

pretty women in lovely gowns, and on the other side the natives sat in

their hundreds and chattered, not the drab-coloured crowd we produce,

but gay and striking as a bed of tulips.

There are three stands--one for the members of the Turf Club, one for

the ordinary public, and one for the natives who can afford a seat.

The members of the Turf Club may be said to be the sheep; the others

the goats. It is more comfortable in every way to be a sheep. You get

a better seat and a comfortable tea in an enclosure, with the sight

of the goats scrambling wildly for a little refreshment to keep you

thankful, for in the heat and dust and glare even a sheep is apt to

lose sight of its mercies. I thought G. was the prettiest girl there.

She is always such a refreshing sight, pink and white and golden like

a morning in May, and tall--"like a king's own daughter."

I was with the Ormondes and, of course, Boggley. Mrs. Ormonde is so

charming, she is a great favourite with men, and is always surrounded

when she goes anywhere by about half a dozen eager for her smiles. She

has the quaintest way of handing her surplus cavaliers on to me, but I

really much prefer Victor and Boggley as companions. They don't need

to be amused like other men, and are always good-natured and funny.

I am feeling a little pale with all the excitement, and shall be glad

of the change to Darjeeling to-morrow. Next mail you shall hear all

about it--that is to say, if no person, seditiously inclined, derails

the train or does anything horrid. Some very dreadful things have been

happening lately, but I don't think there is much danger so long as we

keep far from the vicinity of dignitaries.

_Calcutta, New Year's Day_.

Wednesday already, the mail goes to-morrow, and I with so much to

write about.

To begin--we left Calcutta on Friday afternoon and got to the Ganges

about eight, when we embarked in a ferry-boat to cross the river.

It was quite a big steamer, with dinner-tables laid out on deck,

decorated for Christmas with palm-branches, Chinese lanterns, and

large, deadly-looking iced cakes.

On the other side, the train was waiting that was to take us to

Siliguri, and we lost no time in looking for places. Indian trains are

rather different from our trains. Each carriage has two broad seats

running lengthways, which pull out for sleeping berths, and two other

berths that let down from the roof. I found I had to share a carriage

with two other females, and an upper berth fell to my share.

The bearer arranged my bed, and Boggley took a glance round, asked if

I were all right, and departed to his own place. Isn't it a queer idea

to carry one's bedding about with one? Pillows, blankets, and a quilt,

all done up in a canvas hold-all, accompany people wherever they

travel--in trains, hotels, even when staying with friends.

Well, there was I shut up for the night with two strange women, mother

and daughter evidently, American certainly; and the horror of an upper

berth staring me in the face! It is quite an experience to sleep in

the upper berth of an Indian train. To begin with, it takes an acrobat

of no mean order to reach it at all, and once you are in your nose

almost touches the roof of the carriage. As I climbed to my lofty

perch one of the American ladies remarked, "I guess, child, you ain't

going to have the time of your life up there to-night." And I hadn't.

Every time the train gave a jolt--which it did every few seconds--I

clung wildly to the straps to keep myself from descending suddenly and

violently to the floor; and in less than an hour every bone in my body

was crying out against the inhuman hardness of my couch. In spite

of everything, I fell asleep, and awoke feeling colder than I ever

remember feeling before. I started up, banging my head on the roof as

I did so, to find that the carriage door was swinging wide open. What

was to be done? I carefully felt the bumps beginning to rise on my

forehead, and considered. It was, humanly speaking, impossible that

I could descend and shut that door, and yet, could I endure lying

inadequately covered and exposed to all the winds of heaven? There

remained my fellow-travellers--they at least were on the first floor,

so to speak; but as I wavered a striking apparition rose, stalked down

the carriage, and, leaning far out into the night, seized the door and

shut it with a bang. Then arose a shrill protest from beneath me: "Oh,

Mommer, how could you be so careless! You might have fallen out, and I

should have been left quite alone in this awful heathen country!"

After that there was no more sleep, and when daylight came filtering

through the shutters I slid warily to the floor, and having washed

and dressed, sat on my dressing-bag and conversed amiably with the

Americans. I found them charming and most entertaining, simple, quiet

people; not the shrill-voiced tourist _jât_ at all. They had been

travelling, so they told me, with a sort of dreary satisfaction, for

two years, and they had still about a year to do. It sounded like hard

labour! The poor dears! I can't think why they did it. They would have

been so much happier at home in their own little corner of the world.

I can picture them attending sewing bees, and other quaint things

people do attend in old-fashioned New England storybooks. They had a

servant with them whom they addressed as Ali, a bearded rascal who

evidently cheated them at every turn, and who actually came into their

presence with his shoes on!

I didn't know till I met these Americans that I was such a wit--or

perhaps wag is a better word. I didn't try to be funny, I didn't even

know I was being funny, but every word I said convulsed them.

The "Mommer" said to me:

"Child, are you married?"

"No," I said, surprised. "Why?"

"I was just thinking what a good time your husband must have!"

When we reached Siliguri I was surprised to find everything glistening

with frost, and the few natives who were about had their heads wrapped

up in shawls as if they were suffering from toothache. We got some

breakfast in the waiting-room, and then took our places in the

funniest little toy train. This is the Darjeeling-Himalaya Railway. It

was all very primitive. A man banged with a stick on a piece of metal

by way of a starting-bell, and we set off on our journey to cloudland.

Eagerly looked for, Darjeeling came at last, but alack! no mountains,

only piled-up banks of white clouds. It was bitterly cold, and we were

glad to get out and stamp up to the hotel, where we found great fires

burning in our rooms.

There wasn't much to do in the hotel beyond reading back numbers of

_The Lady's Pictorial_, and I went to bed on Saturday night rather low

in my mind, fearing, after all, I was not to be accounted worthy to

behold the mountains.

Some of the people in the hotel were getting up at 3.30 to go to Tiger

Hill to see the sun rise on Everest. Boggley, the lazy one, wouldn't

hear of going, and when I awoke in the grey dawning stiff with cold,

in spite of a fire and heaps of blankets and rugs, I felt thankful

that I hadn't a strenuous brother. If it had been John, I dare not

think where he would have made me accompany him to in his efforts to

get as near as possible to his beloved mountains. Never shall I forget

the first time he took me to Switzerland to climb. I had never climbed

before--unless you call scrambling on the hills at home climbing--and

I was all eagerness to try till John gave me Whymper's book on Zermatt

to amuse me in the train, and I read of the first ascent of the

Matterhorn and its tragic sequel. It had the effect of reducing me

to a state of abject terror. All through that journey, from Paris to

Lausanne, from Lausanne to Visp, from Visp to Zermatt, horror of the

Matterhorn hung over me like a pall. I even found something sinister

in little Zermatt when we got there--Zermatt that now I love so, with

the rushing, icy river, the cheerful smell of wood smoke, the goats

that in the early morning wake one with the tinkle-tinkle of the bells

through the street, and the quiet-eyed guides that sit on the wall in

the twilight and smoke the pipe of peace.

After dinner, that first night, we walked through the village and

along the winding path that leads up to the Schwarzsee, and gazed at

the mighty peak, so wild, so savage in the pale purple light that

follows the sunset glow--gazed at it in silence, John wrapped in

adoration, I thinking of the men who had gone up this road to their

death.

"Yes," said John, as we turned back, "some very scared men have come

down this road."

If he had known what an exceedingly scared girl was at his side he

wouldn't, I think, have chosen that moment to turn into the little

graveyard that surrounds the village chapel, to look at the graves

of the victims--the graves of Croz the guide, of Hudson, and the boy

Hadow. The text on one stone caught my eye--"_Be ye therefore also

ready..._" It was too much; I fled back to the hotel, locked the door

of my room, shuttered the windows so that I should not see the vestige

of a mountain--and wept.

It is odd to think how I hated it all that night, how to myself

I maligned all climbers, calling them in my haste

foolhardy--senseless--imbecile, when I had only to go up my first easy

mountain to become as keen as the worst--or the best.

Sometimes in those mountaineering excursions with John to Zermatt,

to Chamonix, to Grindelwald, I have found it in my heart to envy the

unaspiring people who spend long days pottering about on level ground.

But looking back it isn't the quiet, lazy days one likes to think

about. No--rather it is the mornings when one rose at 2 a.m. and,

thrusting aching feet into nailed boots, tiptoed noisily into the

deserted dining-room to be supplied with coffee and rolls by a

pitifully sleepy waiter.

Outside the guides wait, Joseph and Aloys, and away we tramp in single

file along the little path that runs through fields full of wild

flowers, drenched with dew, into a fairy-tale wood of tall, straight

pine-trees. We follow the steady, slow footsteps of Joseph, the chief

guide, up the winding path that turns and twists, and turns again, but

rises, always rises, until we are clear of the wood, past the rough,

stony ground, and on to the snow, firm and hard to the feet before the

sun has melted the night's frost. When we reach the rocks, and before

we rope, Aloys removes his rücksack and proceeds to lay out our

luncheon; for if one breakfasts at two one is ready for the next meal

at nine. Crouched in strange attitudes, we munch cold chicken, rolls

and hard-boiled eggs, sweet biscuits and apples, with great content.

Joseph has buried a bottle of white wine in the snow, and now pours

some into a horn tumbler, which he hands to Mademoiselle with an

air--a draught of nectar. It is John's turn for the tumbler next, and

as he emerges from the long, ice-cold, satisfying drink he declares

his firm intention, his unalterable resolve, never to drink anything

but white wine again in this world. But doubtless as you know, the

white wine of the Lowlands is not the white wine of the mountains.

It needs to be buried in the snow by Joseph, and drunk out of a horn

tumbler, at the foot of an aiguille, after a six hours' climb, to be

at its best. After refreshment comes the hard work. To look at the

face of the rock up which Joseph has swarmed; to say hopelessly, "I

can't do it, I can't," and then gradually to find here a niche for one

hand, here a foothold; to learn to cling to the rock, to use every bit

of oneself, to work one's way up delicately as a cat so as not to send

loose stones down on the climber below, until, panting, one lands

on the ledge appointed by Joseph, there to rest while the next man

climbs, it is the best of sports. And at the top to stand in the

"stainless eminence of air," to look down eight--ten--a thousand feet

to the toy village at the foot while John names all the other angel

peaks that soar round us, tell me, you who are also a climber, is it

not very good?

But the coming down! Stumbling wearily down the steep paths of the

pine-woods with the skin rubbed off one's toes, and giving at the

knees like an old and feeble horse, that is not so good. And yet--I

don't know. For as we near the valley, puffs of hot, scented air come

up to meet us, the tinkle of the cow-bell greets our ears, and we

realize that it is only given to those who have braved the perils, who

have searched for the deep things of the ancient mountains and found

out the precious things of the lasting hills, to thoroughly appreciate

the pleasant, homely quietness of the meadow-lands.

But I have wandered miles away from Sunday morning in Darjeeling.

It was still misty when we went out after breakfast, but not so

solidly misty, so Boggley held out hopes it would clear.

Darjeeling is a pretty place tucked into the mountain-side. In the

middle is the bazaar, and it happened to be market day, which made it

more interesting. The village street was lined on both sides with open

booths, some piled with fruit and vegetables, others, oddly enough,

with lamps and mirrors and other cheap rubbish which bore the legend

"Made in Germany," others with all sorts of curios. The place was

thronged with people. A few plainsmen and Tibetans Boggley pointed

out, but most of the crowd were hill-people, jolly little squat

men and women hung with silver chains and heavy ear-rings set with

turquoises. Their eyes are very black and all puckered with laughing,

and they have actually rosy cheeks.

They crowded round, trying to sell us curios and lumps of rough

turquoise. When we asked the price of anything, they replied promptly,

"Twenty rupees." We would offer two rupees, and, after a few minutes'

bargaining, they took it quite cheerfully, the thing probably not

being worth eight annas. I bought a prayer-wheel. It is a round silver

thing with a handle rather like a child's rattle, and inside are slips

of paper covered with writing. These are the prayers, and at intervals

you twirl the wheel round, and the oftener you turn it the more devout

you are.

I also purchased some lumps of rough turquoise, though Boggley said

they were not a good blue,--too pale,--and was tying them up in my

handkerchief when Boggley gripped my arm. "Look!" he said. I looked

straight across the valley, "Higher," said Boggley, and I lifted

my eyes literally to the skies; and

there--"suddenly--behold--beyond"--were the everlasting snows.

All day they stayed with us, and as the sun was setting we climbed to

a point of vantage to see the last of them. It has been said they are

a snow-white wall barring the whole horizon. They are like a city

carved by giants out of eternal ice, a city which lieth four-square.

We watched while peak after peak faded into cold greyness; until

Kangchenjunga towered, alone, rose-red into the heavens, sublime in

its "valorous isolation." Then the light left it too, and we turned

and came down from the Hill of God.

We left for Calcutta at noon on Monday, and I had a thoroughly

over-eaten, uncomfortable day, all owing to Boggley's forethought.

He said as we began breakfast about nine o'clock: "Now eat a good

breakfast, for we shall have to leave before lunch, and no man knows

when we shall get another meal."

It seemed good common-sense, so I ate an egg and two pieces of toast

after I had really finished. That was all very well, but the hotel

people thoughtfully provided us with a substantial luncheon before we

left. Even then Boggley kept on looking to the future.

"Oh, tuck in," he said. "We shan't get anything more till eight

o'clock."

I didn't feel as if I wanted anything ever again, but I hurriedly

gobbled some food, and we raced to the station, then sat in the train

half an hour before it started.

At the first station we stopped at, the bearer appeared at

the carriage window with a breakfast cup of tea and a large

"y-sponge-cake," ferreted from no man knows where. He was so pleased

with himself that I hadn't the heart to refuse it--so there were three

meals that ought to have been spread over the greater part of the day

crowded into one morning. I sympathized with the vulture, who

"Eats between his meals,

And that's the reason why

He very, very rarely feels

As well as you and I."

It is never pleasant to come down from the heights, and we had rather

a dreary journey to Siliguri.

Boggley had taken care to wire for a lower berth in the train for me,

but it seems ordained that I shall ascend in Indian trains. I again

found myself in a carriage with my Americans, and the daughter had

such bad toothache, and seemed so much to dread the prospect of

mounting to the eyrie, that I had to say that I would rather like it

for myself.

Toothache kept Miss America awake and made her talkative, which was

unfortunate for me. She wanted to know all about the manners and

customs of the British. She only knew us from the outside, so to

speak. Incidentally she shed a lurid light on the habits of the

American male. It seems that young men in America are expected to

carry offerings of fruit and flowers and candy to young women--not

when they are engaged, mark you; what is expected of them then I

daren't think--but to quite irrelevant young women. "Don't young

gentlemen do so in England?" asked Miss America. "No," I said, feeling

that I was making out my countrymen poor, mean creatures indeed, but

feeling also how much more complicated life would become for these

"gentlemen of England now abed" if they had to carry crates of

oranges, drums of figs, and pounds of candies to every casual young

woman whose acquaintance they enjoyed.

"You don't say!" said Miss America. "And don't they take you out

driving in their buggies?"

"_Never_," I replied firmly. "They haven't got them."

"You don't say! And how does a young gentleman show he admires you?"

"Well, he doesn't as a rule," I murmured feebly.

"I guess," she said, "we manage things better in America." And,

indeed, perhaps they do.

This conversation so exhausted us that we fell very sound asleep, and

knew nothing till we arrived at the station where we had to get out

and change into the ferry-boat. Then there was a terrible scurry. The

servants waiting to pack up the bedding and strap bags--they said they

had wakened us at the previous station, but they must have wakened

someone else instead--while we threw on various articles of clothing,

stuck hats on undone hair, and feet into unlaced shoes, all the while,

like a Greek chorus, the "Mommer" moaning reproachfully, "Oh, Ali, you

might have woke us," while outside on the platform bounded the irate

Boggley speaking wingéd words.

We did get on to the boat, so after all there was no harm done.

I was quite sorry to part with my Americans when we reached Calcutta.

They and their Ali were going on to Benares that night, tired and

spiritless. They shook us both violently by the hand, vowing we were

just "lovely people" and that I was a "real little John Bull!"

The home mail was waiting us when we got back, and I read my letters,

slept for an hour or two, and then got up and went to a big New Year's

dinner-party, where we had fireworks in our crackers, and sang what G.

calls "Oldlangzine."

Thanks so much for your delightfully long letter.

My wrist aches so I can't write another word.

_Calcutta, Jan. 8_.

One more week and we start for the Mofussil and the Simple Life. The

Mofussil, I may remark in passing, is not, as at first I thought, some

sort of prophet, but means simply the country districts.

I have been standing over Bella while she laid out all my dresses,

telling her which are to be packed carefully and left in Calcutta, and

which are to accompany me. I don't want to take any more luggage than

I can help; as it is, I foresee we shall have a mountain. Boggley has

been begging everyone for the loan of books, as he does not see how

I am to be kept in reading matter when there are no libraries within

reach. He accuses me of being capable of finishing two fat volumes in

a day, but I shan't have time to read much if I carry out my great

project. _I am going to write a book_. You are surprised? But why?

Other members of the family can write, why not I? I read in a review

lately that John has great distinction of style, so perhaps I have

too. Anyway, I have bought a pile of essay-paper and sixpenny-worth of

J nibs, and I mean to find out. It is to be a book about the Mutiny,

the information to be derived from Trevelyan's book on Cawnpore. There

is room, don't you think, for a really good book on the Mutiny?

Last night the Drawing-Room was held by the Vicereine, a function that

everyone, more or less, is expected to attend. I went with G. and her

sister (one needn't go with the lady who presents one), and found it

most entertaining. Not being the wives or daughters of Members of

Council or anything _burra_, we hadn't the private entrée, and had to

wait our turn in pens, like dumb driven cattle.

It is a much simpler affair than a presentation at home; one need not

even wear veils and feathers, and the trains of our white satin gowns

were modest as to length. It was silly to be nervous about such a

little thing, but I quite shook with terror. I think it was the being

passed along by A.D.C.'s that unnerved me, but when I reached the last

and heard "To be presented," and my name shouted out, I stotted

(do you know the Scots word to stot? It means to walk blindly--to

stumble--that and much more; oh! a very expressive word) over a length

of red carpet that seemed to stretch for miles, feeling exactly as a

Dutch wooden doll looks; saw, as in a glass darkly, familiar faces

that smiled jeeringly, or encouragingly, I could not be sure which;

ducked feebly and uncertainly before the two centre figures; and,

gasping relief, found myself going out of the doorway walking on G.'s

train.

Afterwards, when we were all gathered upstairs, the many pretty gowns

and uniforms made a gay sight. I saw the dearest little Maharanee

blazing in magnificent jewels and looking so scared, and shy, and

sweet. There was a supper-room, and lots to eat if one could have got

at it, or had had room to eat it after it had been got. I don't like

champagne--"simpkin" they call it here--much to drink, but I like it

less when it is shot down my back by a careless man.

There is a fancy-dress ball to-night at Government House, and that is

the last of my dissipations for some time to come.

I go on writing, writing all the time about my own affairs and never

even mention your letters, and nothing makes me so cross as to have

people do that to me. I like my friends to make interested comments on

everything I tell them.

I am glad you are so happy in your work and enjoy life. Is the book

nearly finished yet? It is nice that you have found such charming

friends. Is the Fräulein person you talk about pretty? I can imagine

how you enjoy hearing her play and singing to her accompaniment. I

always think of you when I hear good music, and of your face when I

told you that the only music I really liked was Scots songs played

on the pianola! But you know that is really true. I simply hate good

music.

Once, in Paris, I went with some people to hear _Samson et Delilah_,

and while everyone sat rapt, enchanted by the sweet sounds, I waited

with what patience I could till the stage temple fell, in the vain

hope that some part would hit the tenor. What would your Fräulein say

to such blasphemy?

Forgive me maligning the gods of your idolatry. I think I had better

finish this letter before I go on from bad to worse, because I am in

an unaccountably perverse and impertinent frame of mind to-day, and

there is no saying what I shall say next.

_Calcutta, Jan. 8_.

Such a scene of confusion! Everything I possess is lying on the floor.

All the things I have accumulated on my way out and since I came to

Calcutta lie in one heap waiting to be packed; shoes, dresses, hats,

books, photographs are scattered madly about, and in the middle,

almost reduced to idiocy, and making no effort to reduce chaos to

order, sits Bella. I can't help her, for I must get my home letters

written and posted before we leave Calcutta, for before I reach my

first halting-place the mail will be gone.

Boggley has been in the Mofussil for three days, and I have been

staying with the Townleys. I came back last night. It was nice being

with G. again, and her sister is extraordinarily kind. We had rather

an interesting day on Friday. I have always been asking where are the

Missionaries, but I suppose I must have asked the wrong people, for

they didn't seem to know. However, the other day I met a lady,--Mrs.

Gardner,--the wife of a missionary, who asked us to go to lunch with

her, and promised she would show us something of the work among the

women. So on Friday we set off in a _tikka-gharry_.

We left the Calcutta we knew--the European shops, the big, cool

houses, the Maidan--and drove through native streets, airless,

treeless, drab-coloured places, until we despaired of ever reaching

anywhere. When at last our man did stop, we found Mrs. Gardner's cool,

English-looking drawing-room a welcome refuge from the glare and the

dust; and she was kindness itself. She made a delightful cicerone, for

she has a keen sense of humour and a wide knowledge of native life.

We went first to see the girls' school--a quaint sight. All the funny

little women with their hair well oiled and plastered down, with iron

bangles on their wrists to show that they were married, wrapped in

their _saris_, so demurely chanting their lessons! When we went in

they all stood up and, touching their foreheads, said in a queer

sing-song drawl, "Salaam, Mees Sahib, salaam!" The teachers were

native Bible-women. The schoolrooms opened on to a court with a well

like a village pump in the middle. One small girl was brought out to

tell us the story of the Prodigal Son in Bengali, which she did at

great length with dramatic gestures; but our attention was somewhat

diverted from her by a small boy who ran in from the street, hot and

dusty, sluiced himself unconcernedly all over at the pump, and raced

out again dripping. It did look so inviting.

When we left the school Mrs. Gardner said she would take us to see

some _purdah nashin_ women--that is, women who never go out with their

faces uncovered, and who never see any men but their own husbands.

I don't quite know what we expected to see--something very Oriental

and luxurious anyhow; marble halls and women with veils and scarlet

satin trousers dotted about on cushions--and the reality was

disappointing. No marble halls, no divans and richly carved tables,

no hookahs and languid odours of rich perfumes, but a room with cheap

modern furniture, china ornaments, and a round table in the middle

of the floor, for all the world like the best parlour of the working

classes. Two women lived there with their husbands and families, and

they came in and looked G. and me all over, fingered our dresses,

examined our hats, and then asked why we weren't married! I could see

they didn't like the look of us at all. They said we were like the

dolls their little girls got at the fête, and produced two glassy-eyed

atrocities with flaxen hair and vivid pink cheeks, and asked if we saw

the resemblance. We didn't. They told Mrs. Gardner--who has been

many years in India, and looks it--that they thought she was much

nicer-looking than we were, her face was all one colour! (They spoke,

of course, in Bengali, but Mrs. Gardner translated.) Poor women! what

a pitifully dull life is theirs! G. was disappointed to hear they

hadn't become Christians. She had an idea that the Missionary had only

to appear with the Gospel story and the deed was done. I'm afraid it

isn't as easy as that by a long way.

Mrs. Gardner read a chapter from the Bible while we were there, and

these women argued with her most intelligently. They are by no means

stupid. Before we left G. sang to them, with no accompaniment but a

cold stare. When she finished they said they preferred Bengali music,

it had more tune. We left, feeling we had been no success.

Having seen a comparatively well-to-do household, Mrs. Gardner said

she would show us a really poor one. We followed her through a network

of lanes more evil-smelling than anything I ever imagined--London

can't compete with Calcutta in the way of odours--until we reached a

little hovel with nothing in it but a string-bed, a few cooking-pots,

and two women. Caste, it seems, has nothing to do with money, and

these women, though as poor as it is possible to be, were thrice-born

Brahmins, and received us with the most gracious, charming manners,

inviting us to sit on the string-bed while they stood before us with

meekly folded hands. The dim interior of the hut with its sun-bleached

mud floor, the two gentle brown-eyed women with their _saris_ and

silver anklets, looking wonderingly at G. in her white dress sitting

enthroned, with her blue eyes shining and her hair a halo, made an

unforgettable picture of the East and the West.

We had tea at the Mission House and met several missionary ladies who

told us much that was interesting about their work, which they seem to

love whole-heartedly. I asked one girl how it compared with work among

the poor at home, and she said, "Well, perhaps it is the sunshine, but

here it is never sordid." I can't agree. To me the eternal sunshine

makes it worse. At home, although the poverty and misery are terrible,

still, I comfort myself, the poor have their cosy moments. In winter

sometimes, when funds run to a decent fire and a kippered herring

to make a savoury smell, a brown teapot on the hob and the children

gathered in, they are as happy as possible for the time being; I have

seen them. I can't imagine any brightness in the lives of the women we

saw.

To be a missionary in Calcutta, I think one would require to have an

acute sense of humour and no sense of smell. Am I flippant? I don't

mean to be, because I feel I can't sufficiently admire the men and

women who are bearing the heat and burden of the day. And now that

sounds patronizing, and Heaven knows I don't mean to be that.

Anyway, G. and I were never intended to be missionaries. We drove

home very silent, in the only vehicle procurable, a third-class

_tikka-gharry_, feeling as if all the varied smells of the East were

lying heavy on our chests. Once G. said gloomily, "How long does

typhoid fever take to come out?" which made me laugh weakly most of

the way home.

_13th_.

The day of our departure has come, and Boggley is behaving dreadfully.

Having taken time by the forelock, I am packed and ready, but Boggley

has done nothing. He remarked airily that I must go to the Stores and

get some sheets, a new mosquito-net, and a supply of pots and pans,

and then went off to lunch with someone at the Club, leaving me

speechless with rage. How can I possibly know what sort of pots and

pans are wanted? I never camped out before. I shall calmly finish this

letter and pay no attention to his order.

We had a farewell dinner last night, the Ormondes and one or two

others. We came into this dismantled room afterwards and talked till

midnight, and amused ourselves vastly. I happened to say that I was

rather scared at the thought of the wild beasts I might encounter,

probably under my camp-bed, in the jungle; so a man, Captain Rawson,

drew out a table for me to take with me into camp. One heave and a

wriggle means a boa-constrictor, two heaves and a growl a tiger--and

so on. So you can imagine me in a tent, in the dead of night, sitting

up, anxiously striking matches and consulting my table as to what is

attacking me.

Mrs. Ormonde, who is so nervous that if a cracker goes off in her

hearing she thinks it is another Mutiny, is anxious that we should

take guns with us into the Mofussil in case we are attacked. Picture

to yourself Boggley and me setting out "with a little hoard of

Maxims." Armed, I should be a menace alike to friend and foe!

My first stopping-place is Takai. Boggley is going to some very

far-away place where it wouldn't be convenient to take a female, so

when Dr. and Mrs. Russel asked me to come to them while he is there

I very gladly accepted the invitation. Dr. Russel is a medical

missionary. I don't know him, but his wife, a very clever, interesting

woman, I met when she was last home, and she told me about her home in

the jungle until I longed to see it. Boggley will come for me in about

ten days. Bella I shall leave in Calcutta. It would be a nuisance

carting her about from place to place, and I am not so helpless that I

can't manage for myself.

Expect next mail to receive a budget of prodigious size.

THE SUNBURNED EARTH

_Takai, Jan. 19_.

There is no doubt this is the ideal place for letter-writing. I sit

here, in the verandah, with long, quiet hours stretching out before me

and nothing to do but write and write, and I suppose that is why for

the last thirty minutes I have sat nibbling the end of my pen and

dreaming--without putting pen to paper.

Where did I leave off? The Monday we left Calcutta, wasn't it? To

continue. The said Monday was a strenuous day. Boggley absented

himself till late afternoon, while I wrestled with wild beasts at

Ephesus in the shape of bearers and coolies, my Hindustani deserting

me utterly, as it always does at a crisis. G., desolated at the

thought of the coming separation, hovered round all day and did her

best to help.

About tea-time Boggley walked in, serenely regardless of the fact that

we were still devoid of bed and table linen, crockery and cooking

utensils. In the end the bearer was dispatched to the Stores with a

list, but the result of his shopping I haven't yet seen. G. stayed

till nearly dinner-time, and sang to us for a last time. It was horrid

parting from her, my dear old G. Do I write too much about her? I

thought from something you said in a letter that perhaps I rather

bored you talking of her. You see, I like her so much, and you can

hardly understand how much she has meant to me since we left England

together that showery October day.

After dinner we said good-bye to our friends in what Boggley

irreverently calls "the hash-house," and at nine o'clock departed

to the station. The bearer was there with all the luggage, and the

_syces_ with the ponies, for we are taking the ponies in case there

is a chance of polo. In the end we nearly missed the train. At the

booking-office, when we tried to book the ponies, the babu in charge

lost his presence of mind and turned round and round like a teetotum.

I was amazed at Boggley's patience. For myself, I was conscious of an

intense, and most unladylike, desire to slap the poor babu. I, who

have constantly protested against any want of consideration in the

treatment of natives!

As I was the only lady travelling, the guard was much against giving

me a carriage to myself, but a man who spoke with authority, hearing

us argue, came up and told him to put a "Ladies Only" placard on my

carriage, so I travelled in lonely splendour.

At Assansol, which we reached at 5 a.m., we had _chota-hazri_. Tea and

toast, and most diminutive eggs, which we had to hold in our fingers

as there were no egg-cups.

Simultala was my destination, and about eleven o'clock we reached it.

Underneath the trees a few yards away from the little station we found

a bullock-cart, which the Russels had sent for my luggage, and a

doolie for myself. A doolie is a kind of string-bed hung on a pole,

with a covering to keep off the sun. It is carried by four men, and

two others run alongside to relieve their companions at intervals. I

had sixteen miles to travel in this thing. I looked at Boggley very

doubtfully, and he tried to encourage me.

"It is really quite comfortable," he said (and when he said so he

lied), "and the men go very fast. You will be there in no time." So

I bundled in somehow, said a wistful good-bye to Boggley, and we

started. I can't honestly say I like a doolie. I would rather have

been my luggage and gone in the bullock-cart. Whichever way I lay I

very soon got an ache in my back. The conduct, too, of the coolies

filled me with uneasiness. They kept up a continued groaning. One

said, "Oh--oh--oh!" and the other replied, "Oo--oo--oo!" and you can't

think what a depressing sound it was. (I know now that doolie-coolies

always make that noise when on duty. It seems to keep up their hearts,

so to speak, and cheer them on.) Feeling guiltily that it was my

weight that made them groan, I lay perfectly still, and was even

holding my breath in an effort to make myself lighter, when, for no

apparent reason, we left the road, such as it was, and started across

the trackless plain. There was nothing to be seen except an infrequent

bush, no trace of a human habitation--nothing but the wind blowing and

the grass growing. Awful thoughts began to come into my head. I was

all alone in India, indeed worse than alone, I was in the company of

six natives most inadequately clothed: of their language I knew not

one single word; I didn't even know if they were carrying me in the

direction I wanted to go. Suddenly the groaning ceased, and I found

myself and the doolie planted on the ground. _Was_ my bright young

life to be ended? Cold with terror, I shut my eyes tight, and when I

opened them I found all the six coolies squatted round, all talking

at once, all presumably addressing me. I made out one word which

was repeated often, _baksheesh_. Reminding myself that I was of the

Dominant Race, I sat up and waving a hand towards the horizon said

sternly, "Jao!" I do think I must have intimidated them, for they

meekly picked me up again and we resumed our journey. The longest lane

turns, the darkest night wears on to dawn, the weariest river winds

at last to the sea; and about tea-time, aching, dishevelled, hungry

(having had nothing but a few chocolates since _chota-hazri_ at 5

a.m.), I was deposited before the verandah of the Russels' bungalow.

I don't suppose you know anything about mission work? Neither do I,

which is very shocking, as I have had every opportunity of acquiring

information. Perhaps, as a child, I was taken to too many missionary

meetings, with their atmosphere of hot tea and sentiment, and heard

too much of "my dear brothers and sisters in the mission field," for

I grieve to say, before I came to India, I quite actively disliked

missionaries and thought them a feeble folk. Mother was the only kind

of missionary I liked. She has a mission--so we tell her--to the

dreary people of this world. Not the very poor--they are vastly

entertaining--but the not-very-rich, highly respectable, deadly dull

people, with awkward, unlovable manners, whom no one cares very much

to visit or to ask to things, and who must often feel very lonely and

neglected. While others are taken up with more entertaining company

Mother has time to trot to these people with a new book or magazine,

or merely to talk for half an hour in the funny bright way which is

like no one else's way; has them to the house to meet interesting

people (in spite of the remonstrant groans of the family), and having

brought them does not neglect them, but draws them out till they seem

quite brilliant, and they go away warmed and enlivened by their social

success.

Even the most determined distruster of missions couldn't stay long at

Takai without being converted. Dr. Russel, very far from being feeble,

is a most able man, who would have made his mark in his profession at

home; but he prefers healing the bodies and saving the souls of the

Santals in the jungle, to building up a lucrative practice, and even

attaining the dizzy height of a knighthood.

To heal their poor neglected bodies; to be the first to tell them of

Jesus--how did Festus put it?--"one Jesus, which is dead, whom Paul

affirmed to be alive"; to teach them, to help and raise them until

life becomes for these natives a new and undreamed-of thing--one can

see how fine it is, how soul-satisfying!

Dr. Russel has built a hospital, and the natives come from far and

near bringing their sick. As I sit here writing, they come trooping

past, taking a short cut past the bungalow, stopping to stare at me

quite unabashed, sometimes carrying a sick child, sometimes a blind

old man or woman. They know they can come at any time and the Padre

Sahib will never tell them to go away. It is different with a

Government official. He is hedged round by _chuprassis_ who levy toll

on the poor natives before they allow them to enter the presence of

the Sahib. It is a scandal, but it seems impossible to stop it. You

may catch a _chuprassi_ in the act, you may beat him and insist on

his handing back the money, but almost before your back is turned the

annas or pice have changed hands again! It is _dustoor_!

My first view of the hospital was rather a shock. Nothing was what I

had expected. The beds are square blocks of cement, without even a

mattress. The patients bring their own bedding and their cooking pots

and pans, and generally a friend to look after them. The said friends

camp all round the hospital, and it is pretty to see them at sunset,

each cooking his evening meal over his own little fire. This morning

being Sunday I went to a service at the hospital. The mingled smell

of carbolic, hookahs, and coco-nut oil was, I confess, rather

overpowering, but when Dr. Russel asked me, "Is this at all

interesting to you, or is it merely disgusting?" I could reply

truthfully that it was more interesting than disgusting. The patients

sat rolled up in their blankets, and listened while the tale of the

Prodigal Son was read to them, holding up their hands in horror when

they heard he herded swine: they regard that as a very low job indeed.

It is odd the way they respond: just as if during church service at

home a man were to answer each statement made by the clergyman, "Right

you are, guv'nor."

Coming home, we saw a native cooking his dinner on a little charcoal

fire, and as I passed he threw the contents of the pot away.

Surprised, I asked why. "Because," I was told, "your shadow fell on it

and defiled it!"

One can hardly overestimate the boon a man like Dr. Russel is to a

district. Trust is a plant of slow growth with the natives, but

they have learned to trust him entirely, and go to him in all their

troubles as children go to a father. And he has a very real helpmate

in his wife. I never saw such a busy woman. If she isn't in the

hospital helping at operations (she has a medical degree), she is

teaching girls to sew, or women to read, and yet the children are

beautifully cared for, and the house excellently managed. I suppose

most women would pity Mrs. Russel sincerely. She passes her life in a

place many miles from another European, with absolutely no society,

no gaieties, no theatres, not even shops where she can while away

the time buying things she doesn't want. Yet I never met a woman so

utterly satisfied with her lot. Honestly, I don't think she has a

single thing left to wish for: devoted to her husband, devoted to her

children, heart and soul in her work.

"If only," she sometimes says, "it would go on! The children will have

to go home very soon--the tragedy of Anglo-Indian life."

They are such dear children, Ronald and Robert and tiny Jean. The boys

speak Santali like little natives, and even their English has an odd

turn. When little Jean was born they were greatly interested in the

first white baby they had seen, and Ronald said rapturously:

"Oh, Mummy, aren't ladies darlings when they are babies?"

Their mother found them one day bending over the cradle, arguing as to

why the baby cried.

Ronald said, "She has no teeth, for that reason she cries."

Robert said, "She has no hair, for that reason she cries."

And Ronald finished, "She has no English, for that reason she cries."

I am not the only visitor at Takai. There are two missionary ladies

here, resting after a strenuous time in some famine district. One is

tall and stout, the other is short and thin; both have drab-coloured

faces and straight mouse-coloured hair; both wear eye-glasses and sort

of up and down dresses--the very best of women one feels sure, but

oh! so difficult. You know my weakness for making people like me,

but these dear ladies will have none of me, charm I never so wisely.

Everything I do meets with their disapproval--how well I see it in

their averted, spectacled eyes! I talk too much, laugh too much, tell

foolish tales, mimic my elders and betters, and--worst sin of all--I

have never read, never even heard of, the _Missionary Magazine_.

Something you said in your last letter, some allusion to religion, I

didn't quite like, and at any other time I would have written you a

sermon on the subject. In Calcutta (where I felt so self-righteous)

nothing would have prevented me--but now I haven't the spirit. Mark,

please, how the whirligig of Time brings its revenges! In Calcutta I

thought myself a saint, in Takai I am regarded as a Brand Unplucked.

It is rather dispiriting. I am beginning to wonder if I really am as

nice as I thought I was.

_Takai, Jan. 22_.

This Gorgeous East is a cold and draughty place.

We have _chota-hazri_ in the verandah at 7.30, and at that early hour

it is so cold my blue fingers will hardly lift the cup. Now the sun

is beginning to warm things into life again, and I have been sitting

outside basking in its rays, to the anxiety of Mrs. Russel, who, like

all Anglo-Indians, has a profound respect for the power of the Eastern

sun. The children are taught that one thing they must not do is to run

out without a topi. They were looking over _The Pilgrim's Progress_

with me, and at a picture of Christian, bareheaded, approaching the

Celestial City, with the rays of the sun very much in evidence, Robert

pointed an accusing finger, saying, "John Bunyan, you're in the sun

without your topi."

The poor Santals must feel dreadfully cold just now, especially the

children, who have hardly anything on. Mrs. Russel has a big trunk

full of things sent out from home as presents to the Mission--pieces

of calico, and various kinds of garments--and these are given as

prizes to the children who attend the Christian schools. The pieces of

cloth which they can wind round them are the most valued prizes.

Some of the garments are too ridiculous. Shapeless sacks of pink

flannelette, intended, I suppose, for shirts; and such-like. This

morning there was a prize-giving. The big trunk was brought into the

verandah, and the children were allowed to choose. One small boy

chose a dressing-gown of a material known, I believe, as duffle, of a

striking pattern. In this he arrayed himself with enormous pride: a

wide frilled collar stood out round his little thin neck, and, to

complete the picture, he carried a bow and arrow. A quainter figure I

never saw! I only wished the well-meaning Dorcas who made the garment

could have seen him. A little missionary from somewhere in West Africa

once told me about a small orphan native she had rescued and adopted.

"I had him christened," she said plaintively. "I had him christened

David Livingstone, and I dressed him in a blue serge man-of-war suit;

but he ran away." I murmured sympathy, but I couldn't feel surprised.

Imagine a little heathen David Livingstone, in a hot, sticky serge

suit!

These bows and arrows, by the way, are rather interesting. The natives

make them of bamboo and strips of hide, and they are tipped with iron.

They really shoot things with them--birds and wild animals, I mean. I

bought one from the owner of the dressing-gown for four annas, to take

home to Peter. It seemed very little for a real bow and arrow, but Dr.

Russel said it was quite enough; and when one comes to think of it, it

is double a man's day's wage. I _am_ enjoying myself at Takai. As the

man said when he lost his wife, "It's verra quiet but verra peacefu'."

After Calcutta, the quiet does seem almost uncanny.

It is a blameless existence one leads. I think I would soon grow very

good, for there is no temptation to be anything else. One can't be

very frivolous when there is no one to be frivolous with; nor can one

backbite and be unkind, for there is no provocation. As for being vain

and fond of the putting on of apparel, what is the good when one is

the Best People if one wears a garment of any description?

Although there is nothing to do, the days never seem too long. After

_chota-hazri_ I generally go for a walk with the children. There is

one good broad road passing the bungalow which leads away to the Back

of Beyond, but we prefer the little tracks worn by the feet of the

natives, which criss-cross everywhere. Jean won't stir a step without

a horrid, dilapidated rag doll called Topsy. I do dislike the faces of

rag dolls, their lack of profile is so gruesome, and Topsy is a most

depressing specimen of her kind; but Jean lavishes affection on her.

A woman-child is an odd thing. I remember being taken into a shop to

choose a doll, and I chose a most hideous thing with curly white hair.

No one could understand why, and I was too shy to tell. It was because

the doll was so ugly; I felt sure no one would buy her, and I couldn't

bear to think of her loneliness. The boys christened her "Mrs.

Smilie," after a lady of that name whom they thought she resembled,

and the poor thing came to a tragic end. They were playing at the

execution of Mary Queen of Scots, in the shrubbery, seized on "Mrs.

Smilie" to play the title rôle, and with brutal realism chopped off

her poor ugly head. I arrived just in time to see the deed, and rushed

swiftly, with fists and feet, to avenge her fate.

Well, we set off every morning on our pilgrimage, Jean calling herself

"Mrs. Jones," and walking primly till we reach what we pretend is the

seashore, where she forgets her dignity and rolls about in the sand.

A certain kind of tree that Dr. Russel has planted round about the

bungalow makes a noise exactly like waves, so it is easy to pretend

about the sea. We meet many pilgrims on their way to some holy place,

and we create quite a sensation in the little clusters of huts--they

could hardly be called villages--that we pass through. The inhabitants

crowd around us, saying "Johar," which I take it is Santali for

"Salaam," and we repeat "Johar" and grin broadly in reply; and the pie

dogs sniff round us in a friendly way. The other day we met a boy who,

on beholding me, stood stock still, threw back his head, and shouted

with laughter. I never heard more whole-hearted merriment. I had to

join in. Whether it was that he had never seen anyone with fair

hair before, or whether there is something particularly droll in my

appearance, I don't know, but he evidently found me the funniest thing

he had met with for a long time. It is generally Topsy who is the

centre of interest. They hustle one another to look at her and gurgle

with delight. Jean told me solemnly, "I have to leave her at home when

I go with Mummy to the villages. They won't listen about Jesus for

looking at Topsy."

Jean's great desire is to meet "someone white." Yesterday I saw a

horseman approaching in European riding kit and a topi. "Look, Jean,"

I said, "I believe that is an Englishman" but when he came up to us

and raised his topi with a flourish Jean said mournfully, "No, it's

nobody white," and I had to pick her up hurriedly in case she should

say something more to hurt the poor Eurasian.

When we come in from our walk it is tiffin-time. After that the

children are put to bed, and I sit in the verandah and write and rest.

Did I say rest? This is what goes on:

"O-liv-i-a!"

I go into the nursery, and Jean, very wide awake, demands a needle and

thread, as she wants to sew a dress for Topsy. I tie a piece of thread

into a large darning-needle and supply her with my handkerchief, which

she proceeds to sew into a tight ball. I return to my writing.

"Olivia!"

This time it is Robert.

"Olivia, if this bungalow fell into the tank would it splash out all

the water?"

"Of course it would."

"Then what would the water do when it fell back from the splash and

found the bungalow blocking up its tank?"

Unable to think of an answer, I tell him to be a good boy and not

disturb people when they are writing. Ronald begs for a piece of paper

and a pencil, and having got it, proceeds to write down everything

beginning with G. I once told Peter to do that, and his list when I

looked at it ran: "God--Gollywog--Gordon Highlanders."...

Immediately I resume my writing it begins again, "Olivia" in every

tone, peremptory, beseeching, coaxing--but like the deaf adder I stop

my ears and refuse to hear. I am using this opportunity to write my

great work on the Mutiny, and it isn't nearly so easy to write a book

as I thought. No matter how much I try, my sentences seem all to

stand up on end. I can't acquire any ease or grace of style. I read

somewhere lately that young writers use too many adjectives, that good

writers depend more on verbs. It has made me rather nervous and I keep

counting both, but a certain dubiety in my own mind as to which is

which greatly complicates matters. My heroine, too, is a failure, I

like her name--Belinda--but it is the only thing I like about her.

What is the good of me laboriously writing down that she is beautiful

and charming when I am convinced in my own mind she is nothing of the

kind? However, I mean to persevere....

We all meet at tea--the nicest time of the day I think. My friend

Katie says the world isn't properly warmed up till five o'clock, and

certainly there is a feeling of comfort all over everything at the

clink of the teacups. Mrs. Russel being Scots, knows how to give a

proper tea, with plates, and knives, and scones, and jam; and I am as

greedy as a schoolboy over it. Yesterday there was no milk--such a

blow. The cows had wandered into a man's land, and he, as the custom

is, marched them into the pound five miles away, and there we

were--milkless!

The country round Takai is quite pretty--almost like Scots moorland.

Yesterday we went for a picnic to a river at the opening of a pass--a

most interesting place where not very long ago a native boy had been

eaten by a tiger. You see, picnics in the jungle are not quite the

insipid things they are at home! There is always the chance that the

unwary may be devoured. Actually we did see yesterday the footprints

of a tiger in the sand by the river--pugs I think is the proper

expression. I was scared, but Robert advanced boldly into the bushes.

Ronald, watching him admiringly, said, "He is very brave; he is as

brave as Daniel."

Talking about tigers, they aren't nearly as prevalent as I thought. I

had an idea they were prowling all over India waiting to spring, but

one man told me he had been in India fifteen years and had never seen

one. Boggley came on one once and took it for a cow--short-sighted

Boggley! Dr. Russel says there was a man-eating tiger in the district

lately, and a reward was offered for its capture. A young engineer

sallied forth to slay. He directed the natives to dig a pit near where

the tiger was known to be and cover it with branches, and the next day

went and found it had walked into the trap. The natives removed the

branches, the gallant engineer approached, but they had dug the pit on

a slope, and the tiger _came walking up to meet him!_

I would rather like to see a wild beast from a safe distance. A native

came into hospital only yesterday with his arm all torn and mauled by

a leopard, but, though I have walked miles through the jungle, I have

seen nothing more fearsome than a black-beetle, and _that_ I might have

seen at home. The Santals are very keen _shikaris_, and go regularly

to hunt armed with bows and arrows and a few guns.

One morning I watched them start. With them was a youth home on

holiday from a situation in Calcutta--I liked his idea of a shooting

costume. He wore a pair of bright blue socks and yellow shoes, a

pink shirt worn over a dhoti, and over that a well-cut tweed coat

(evidently an old one of his master's), a high linen collar, but no

tie, a straw hat and enormous blue spectacles. The last-named were

evidently worn more for effect than by order of the oculist, for the

youth removed them when the time came to use his gun.

_27th_.

My home mail has just come in. I like to be in the verandah to see the

dâk-runner bring in the letters. I hear him long before I see him, for

he carries a stick with jingling bells at the end to frighten away

animals as he comes through the jungle. Mine was a particularly nice

mail to-day--good news from everyone. You have no idea how out here

one loves to get letters, and how one gloats over every scrap of

news. Do you really look forward to my letters? Your letters are the

greatest comfort to me; indeed, I can't imagine what it would be like

without them.

I must finish this up, for the mail goes to-morrow. My time here is

nearly run. I hear from Boggley that he expects to arrive to-morrow,

and we depart together the next day. I shall be sorry and glad--both.

Sorry to leave Takai and the dear people, more than glad to be with

Boggley.

Robert has just come in, excitedly clutching the tail of a lizard. He

had caught it going up the wall, and the lizard had wriggled away and

left its tail. Now I suppose it will perseveringly grow another.

Robert is holding the tail before Jean that she may see it wriggle,

and saying, "God made it so. _Wasn't_ it clever?" The dear babies! How

I shall miss them!

_Circuit House, Lakserai, Jan 31_.

This letter must begin in pencil, for Boggley has the only pen. By the

bye, would you mind keeping my letters till I get home? I think it

might be amusing to read them when my cold weather in India is a thing

of the past.

Behold us on the first stage of our wanderings!

We left Takai on Wednesday, I in my old friend the doolie, Boggley on

his bicycle. It is wonderful where a bicycle can go in India.

I was much sorrier to leave Takai than I thought I should be, and

I think they were a little sorry to see me go. Even the missionary

ladies unbent so far as to say they would miss my bright face and

merry chatter. How differently people describe things! Bright and

merry are hardly the adjectives I should have applied to my soulful

countenance and brilliant conversation; but no matter. They all stood

on the verandah to watch us go. Mrs. Russel, dear woman, was obviously

sincerely sorry for anyone leaving such a delectable spot as Takai;

and indeed there are many worse places. The boys grinned benignly,

each hopping on one foot. Robert, looking rather like a toadstool with

his topi and thin legs, said, "I'm going to Scotland soon, and I'm not

coming back to India till I have a long beard."

Just as we were starting, an object hurtled through the air and fell

at my feet, and Jean's voice explained, "It is Topsy, Olivia; you may

have her"; then, self-sacrificing but heart-broken, she buried her

head in her mother's lap. I am rather "tear-minded," as our old nurse

used to say, at any time, and I saw things through a mist for the

first mile or two.

It didn't seem nearly such a long way going to the station as coming

from it, but Boggley on his bicycle was there long before me and my

doolie men. We got a train to wherever we were going to about five

o'clock. I had some sandwiches with me, and we got tea handed in at a

station. It tasted of musty straw, and Boggley said the milk wasn't

safe, but the cups made up for everything. Boggley's bore the legend

_Forget-me-not_, and mine _A present for a good girl_ in gilt letters.

About eight o'clock we came to another station--it is quite impossible

to remember their ridiculous names--and got out. It was quite an

important station, and the large refreshment-room had a long table set

for dinner. Lining the walls of the room were tall glass cases filled

with tinned meats, jam, biscuits, and other eatables, for in the

Mofussil provisions are bought at the railway stations. After dinner

Boggley produced a pencil and sheet of paper. "Now," he said, "we must

make a list of provisions wanted." So we sat on the table and laid our

heads together.

"We'll begin with necessaries," said Boggley "Butter."

"Jam," I added, "and cheese."

These being put down, we couldn't think of another single thing.

"Go on," said Boggley, biting his pencil "That can't be all."

"Biscuits," I said with a flash of inspiration, and we chose three

boxes of biscuits, and stuck again.

When the attendant produced a list of provisions kept, we got on

better, and soon had two large wooden boxes packed with things that

sounded as if they might taste good. The only thing I do feel we have

been extravagant in is mustard--it is an enormous tin, and one doesn't

really eat such a vast deal of mustard.

The list finished and approved, I asked when our train came in.

"About 4.30," said Boggley. This was 9 p.m.

"What!" I cried, aghast, "Where are we going to sleep?"

Boggley waved his hands comprehensively. "Anywhere," he said; "we'll

see what the waiting-room is like."

The waiting-room was like nothing I had ever seen before. A large,

dirty, barn-like apartment, with some cane seats arranged round the

wall, and an attempt at a dressing-table, with a spotty looking-glass

on it, in one corner. One small lamp, smelling vilely, served to

make darkness visible, and an old hag crouching at the door was the

attendant spirit. It doesn't sound cheery, does it? The bearer,

Autolycus by name (I call him Autolycus not because he is a knave and

witty, but because he is such a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles),

made up a bed on one of the cane seats, and there, in that dreary and

far from clean apartment, with horrible insects walking up the walls

and doubtless carpeting the floor, with no lock on the door and

unknown horrors without, I slept dreamlessly. My last waking thought

was, "I wish my mother could see me now!"

Boggley slept in the refreshment-room. Autolycus had gone to the

stationmaster and demanded a bed for "a first-class Commissioner

Sahib," and, so far does impudence carry one, got it.

I was awakened at 3 a.m., and the aged crone helped me to pack up

my bedding. I gave her a rupee, which afterwards I regretted when

Autolycus pointed out she had stolen a sheet.

We crossed the Ganges in the grey dawn, a clammy fog shrouding

everything. Nothing was visible but a stretch of wan water, and one or

two natives near the bank bathing in the holy river. We were the only

Europeans travelling, till at one station a nice old priest came in,

of what nationality we couldn't make out. I was pondering it when I

discovered that my bangle with the miniature, which I always wear,

wasn't on my wrist. We looked up, and down, and round about, and then

I shouted, "Why, there it is!" And there it was lying on the priest's

lap. He looked so utterly dumbfoundered, poor dear man, and blushed

all over his fat, good-natured face, and I, when I realized I had

pointed an accusing finger, was also covered with confusion. We tried

to explain that it had come off with my glove, but he merely bowed

repeatedly and made hurt ejaculations in some unknown tongue, so we

were reduced to an uneasy silence.

About twelve o'clock we had breakfast in the refreshment-room of a

station. We had wired for it, so it was ready. First we got ham and

eggs. The ham was evidently tinned, and the eggs were quite black. I

poked my share suspiciously and asked what made it so black. "Pepper,"

said Boggley, who was eating away quite placidly.

Pepper! As if I couldn't recognize plain dirt when I saw it. Our

plates were the kind with hot water inside, and a cork, and as the

venerable man removed them for the next course I, watching, saw him

wipe them perfunctorily with the corner of his already none too clean

garment, then gravely hand them back. After that, I thought dry bread

was the safest thing to breakfast on.

Now we are installed in Lakserai Circuit House These rest-houses

are kept up by the Government for officials on inspection duty.

Dâk-bungalows are rather different. Any traveller may stay in them by

paying so much. This house consists of one very large room, dining,

drawing, smoking room in one, and two bedrooms. It is rather damp and

dreary, but that doesn't matter, for we leave again to-morrow morning.

We have been to call this afternoon on the wife of the Collector, Mrs.

Edston, a pretty woman with nice manners and a sweet voice. We had tea

with her and saw her small son. Her bungalow interested me. It was

only the second Mofussil bungalow I had seen. The Takai drawing-room

was delightful, a big, rather empty room, with one or two good

reproductions of famous pictures on the walls, heaps of books, and an

almost entire absence of ornaments--rather an ascetic room. It

suited the simple, strenuous life there. Mrs. Edston's is quite

different--bright and pretty, full of flowers and growing plants;

tables laden with silver, and photographs of pretty women and

children; comfortable chairs, with opulent cushions, soft rugs and

hangings--altogether a very cosy room.

Mrs. Edston has kindly asked us to dine with her to-night.

_Later_.

We have just come back, and as I am not very sleepy I shall write a

bit. It was pouring rain at eight o'clock, so a trap was sent for us,

and a note asking us not to whip the horses too hard. I thought they

must be very restive animals, but it turned out to be a joke. There

were no horses in the trap, only coolies!

We had a very pleasant dinner. Mr. Edston is out in camp, but two

young assistant officers were there. They live in tents in the

compound, as the bungalow is small, and have their meals with the

Edstons. Sitting to-night before a blazing fire, in the pretty

drawing-room, listening to Mrs. Edston singing, I reflected that

they were exceedingly fortunate young men to have such a home-like

habitation and such a charming hostess. To do them justice, I think

they quite realize their good fortune.

We depart to-morrow morning for some quite unpronounceable place about

twenty miles from here, to stay at another rest-house till Monday.

_Madhabad, Sunday_.

We have reached the unpronounceable place after much prayer and

fasting. What a day we had yesterday! We left the Lakserai Circuit

House at 10 a.m., preceded by Autolycus and a crowd of coolies bearing

luggage. Each coolie carries one thing, and as they are all paid the

same without regard to the weight carried, of course there is great

competition for the light packages. It is odd to see one man stagger

under a trunk while another trots gaily off with a cushion or a kodak.

We are allowed to take hand-luggage into the carriage, and we take

such a broad view of the word that it means with us dressing-bags,

suit-cases, tennis-rackets, gun-cases, polo-sticks, golf-clubs, and as

much more as the compartment will hold.

The station, when we reached it yesterday, was crammed with natives

squatting so thick on the platform one could hardly move without

treading on them. A great festival is going on which only happens once

in a long time--fifty years I think--and if they bathe in the holy

Ganges while the festival lasts all their sins are washed away. They

are flocking from all parts, eagerly boarding every train that stops,

regardless of the direction it is going in. The festival ends to-day

at twelve, so I greatly fear many will be disappointed. At all times

the native loves railway travelling, and, as he has no notion of

time-tables, he often arrives at the station the night before, sleeps

peacefully on the ground, and is in comfortable time for the first

train in the morning. Also, he has no idea of fixed charges, and when

he goes to the ticket-office and asks for his "tickut," and the babu

in charge tells him the price, he offers half. When that is refused he

goes away, and returns in an hour or so and offers a little more. It

may take a whole day to convince a native that he can't beat down the

Railway Company.

This festival had so disarranged the trains that our train which

should have left at ten didn't come in till twelve. Then we had

to change at the next station and wait for the connection, and we

actually sat there till eight in the evening, when our train sauntered

in. They say of a certain cold and draughty station in Scotland that

in it there is neither man's meat, nor dog's meat, nor a place to sit

down, and it is equally true of the Indian junction. We had nothing

to eat all day except ginger snaps, and they pall after a time,

especially in a dry and dusty land where no water is. There were two

other travellers in the same plight, a Mr. and Mrs. Blackie, and we

sat together through that long hot day, too utterly hungry and bored

even to pretend interest in each other. When the train did come in,

something had gone wrong with the engine, and they lost more time

pottering about with it--tying it up with string probably. It was then

that my temper, and I do think I behaved with great fortitude up to

that time, gave way, and I tried to bully the officials. It was

no use. They merely smiled and said, "Cer-tain-lee," and Boggley

irritated me more and more by solemnly repeating:

"It is not good for the Christian soul to hustle the Aryan brown,

For the Christian riles and the heathen smiles

And it weareth the Christian down.

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white

With the name of the dear deceased;

And the epitaph drear--'A fool lies here

Who tried to hustle the East.'"

We had nothing to look forward to at the end of the journey except a

dâk-bungalow's cold welcome, but the Blackies, who live at Madhabad,

insisted we should go home with them to dinner; so, instead of the

tinned ham-and-egg meal we had expected, we had a dainty, well-cooked

dinner in a cosy dining-room. Warmed and fed, we retired to our

present resting-place, and found little comfort here. Autolycus and

his coolies had only just arrived, and Autolycus was searching vainly

for a lamp--a _bati_ he called it. The floors are stone and as cold as

the tomb. Mr. Blackie begged us to go back to his place for the night,

but we wouldn't hear of it. Autolycus ran a lamp to earth; we explored

for bedrooms and found two, in which he hastily made up beds. They are

damp, and far from clean; but one learns to put up with a lot in the

Mofussil, and in a very short time we had forgotten our troubles in

sleep.

This morning I rose betimes and went out to the verandah, and there

I found--quite suddenly--a handsome young man. It seems he too is

staying in this eligible mansion. He is an engineer--a bridge-builder,

I think--and this is convenient for his present work. He was in

bed and asleep, and didn't hear us arrive last night; so he was as

surprised to see me as I was to see him. When Boggley appeared we had

breakfast together. It was interesting hearing about the kind of life

this young man leads. He says although Madhabad is not gay, it is

Piccadilly compared to where he often is, out in camp, forty miles

from another European, with not a soul to speak to from week to

week. The evenings are the dreariest times, and he often goes to bed

immediately after dinner. He was quite cheerful, and said he liked

the life. Madhabad is a large village, but the Blackies are the only

Europeans. There are a lot of planters, however, living round about.

We had callers this morning. Mr. Royle, to whose place we go on

Monday, rode over with his two small daughters, to say they would

expect us to stay with them. We meant to camp, but it will be much

pleasanter to stay with the Royles; everyone says they are charming

people.

Boggley and I went for a walk after tea to see the country. There

isn't much to see except a long, straight brown road and a most

insanitary-looking tank. The village is more interesting with its

queer booths. I do think it is an incongruous sight to see, as I

saw this afternoon, a native, naked but for a loin cloth, plying

a Singer's sewing-machine. The natives looked sullen and rather

suspicious, or is it only that I imagine it because they are so unlike

the broad-smiling Santals with their cheerful _johar_? There are four

trees before this bungalow, and at present two vultures are perching

on each--horrible creatures, with long, scraggy necks. I pointed them

out to Boggley, who was immediately reminded of a tale of a bumptious

young civilian, new to the country, who was told, by one who had

suffered many things at his hands, that the birds were wild turkeys, a

much-valued delicacy; hearing which the youth promptly shot some and

sent them round to the ladies of the station. Do you believe that

tale? I don't.

... We have just finished dinner--much the most amusing dinner I ever

ate. There is an intense rivalry, it seems, between our cook and the

engineer-man's cook; and although we dined together, our bills-of-fare

were kept jealously apart. Autolycus, of course, waited on us, and

when he handed me the fish, and I helped myself to one of the four

pieces, he said sternly, "Two, please," and I meekly took the other.

The engineer had no fish, but on the other hand he had an entrée which

was denied us. Both cooks rose to a savoury. (They _will_ give you

the savoury before the sweet. If you insist on anything else, it so

demoralizes them that the dinner is a ruin.) Our savoury was rather

ambitious--stuffed eggs rolled in vermicelli. It tasted rather like a

bird's-nest, and one felt it had taken a lot of making and rolling

in brown hands. I envied the simpler poached egg on tomato of the

engineer. You can't _pat_ a poached egg!

_Rika, Feb. 9_.

I have no home letters to answer this week. We forgot to give the

Calcutta people the new address, so on Monday night the dâk-runner

with his bells would jingle with my precious home mail into the Takai

verandah; Mrs. Russel, having no other address, would re-direct them

back to Calcutta, and they may reach us here about Sunday, It is

tantalizing, but I don't pine for news in Rika so much as in most

places. I am so thoroughly at home. I find the Mofussil is simply full

of nice people. When we rode out here on Monday morning, and Mrs.

Royle, with a shy small girl on either side, came down the verandah

steps to meet us, I knew I was going to love staying here. There is an

atmosphere about that makes for peace and happiness, and every day I

like the place and the people more.

Rika was rather a revelation. The civilians' bungalows have a

here-we-have-no-continuing-city look about them; their owners are

constantly being moved, and pitching their moving tents elsewhere;

but the Royles have been at Rika for fifteen years, and have made a

delightful home. The bungalow is built on a slightly rising ground

with a verandah all round--a verandah made pleasant with comfortable

chairs, rugs, writing-tables, books, and flowers. At one end a

_dirzee_ squats with a sewing-machine, surrounded by white stuff in

various stages of progress for the Mem Sahib and the children. From

the middle of the verandah a broad flight of steps, flanked on either

side by growing plants in pots, leads down to the road, and across the

road lie the tennis-lawns and the flower-garden. I have read that one

of the most pathetic things about this Land of Exile is the useless

effort to make English flowers grow. In Rika they must feel at home,

for the whole air is scented with roses and mignonette. When

Mrs. Royle took us to see her flowers, Boggley pulled a sprig of

mignonette, sniffed it appreciatively, and handing it to me said:

"What does that remind you of?"

"Miss Aitken's teas!" I said promptly. Always that scent takes me

straight back to sunny summer afternoons when

"The day was just a day to my mind,

All sunny before and sunny behind,

Over the heather,"

and myself in a stiffly starched frock, accompanied by three brothers

with polished faces and spotless collars setting out to drink tea with

our friends Miss Aitken and Miss Elspeth. There was always honey for

tea, I remember,--honey made by the bees that buzzed through laborious

days in their thatched houses in a corner of the sunny garden,--and

little round scones, and crisp shortbread; and, as we ate and

chattered, through the open windows the roses nodded in, giving

greeting to their friends, the roses of past summers dried and

entombed in great vases; and the scent of mignonette so mixed itself

with the sound of gentle old voices and childish trebles, the fragrant

tea in the fragile china cups, the prancing dragons in the cabinet,

that now, over the years, it brings them all back to me as surely, as

potently, as if it had been indeed a sprig of Oberon's wild thyme

or Ophelia's rosemary for remembrance. As I have told you, we were

naughty children, sometimes even wicked children, but our conduct at

this house was, "humanly speaking, perfect." The old ladies listened

so sympathetically to our tales of how many trout we had that day

_guddled_ in the burn; of the colt we had managed to catch and

mount--as a family--by the aid of the dyke, and of the few delirious

moments spent on its slippery back before it threw us--as a family; of

the ins and outs of why Boggley's nose was swelling visibly and his

right eye disappearing. They would look at each other, nodding wisely

at intervals while they murmured, "Interestin' bit bairnies." Boggley,

when young, was of a peculiarly fiery temper. At times one could

hardly look at him without being confronted with squared fists and

being invited to "come on"; but when Miss Elspeth, holding one of his

pugnacious paws in her kind, soft hands, assured him he was the flower

of the flock, and _her_ boy, he was a Samson shorn for mildness.