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lintels, cornice, and base—a dream of decoration, a symphony in white. Near by is another arrangement in white marble in low relief and latticework surrounding unhappy Mohammed, once the wearer of the Koh-i-nur and occupant of the Peacock Throne, who concealed the great diamond in his turban and then was courteously invited to change turbans by Nadir Shah. If ever death had beautiful and artistic recompense, "it is here, it is here, it is here," surely. Remembering the monstrosities of monuments and mausoleums in our Western graveyards, the broken columns, cremation urns, and misapplied Greek vase shapes that make our cemeteries places of horror, one wishes that committees on American public monuments and memorials might study these Indian tombs. Akbar's brother has also a marble sarcophagus carved in finest lacework, that rests under a great open pavilion, a marble canopy supported by sixty-four carved columns. While we stood enthusiastic by this exquisite tomb, comparing it with the domed sentry-box by the Hudson where lies America's greatest soldier, a piercing wail arose. A lone turban on a near roof was waving a yak-tail in air as the voice wailed so dismally. Soon black specks in the furthest sky defined themselves as hurrying bird-shapes, hovered like gigantic butterflies directly between us and the zenith sun, and whirled in prismatic beauty to our feet, a homing flock of pigeons. Like foot-soldiers, these winged creatures obeyed the voice and signals of their keeper, went through their evolutions, and caught the grain thrown in air. Afterward we recognized the pigeon-