brightness of that morning landscape. There rise around them the thick-scattered groves in which they have spent in tent-life such pleasant hours. Far off, sandy stretches lie cold in the morning mist; among silent wastes, the thread of a river winds its gleaming way. They stand by the village threshing-floor, listening to the talk of the country folk. There reaches them the sweet scent of the boiling sugar-juice, the droning of the uneasy sugar-mill, the plaintive stridency of the Persian water-wheel. Urchins, shouting from their platforms above the high crops, wage unequal war the livelong day against the mischievous parrot and the contentious crow. Infinite movement plays on the surface of the green sea of wheat. Under a dust-laden canopy, as the hours draw on, the shifting files of cattle move slowly home, in the eye of the setting sun. But with the brief twilight comes a great hush upon the country side. Among interlaced branches and the flecked shadows of their foliage, the silent moonlight sleeps on the white tent roofs. A passing breeze whispers presently of coming day; somewhere among the leaves a sigh responds to it; Nature, with a rustle in all her plumage, awakes. With the first dawn, rosy blushes momentarily flush and fade in the pearly sky; then, the sun leaps up in his ardour.
Few, without vital feelings of delight, recall these first impressions of Indian life. The landscape varies with the latitude. But what rarely varies is the consecration given to the landscape by youth, and the
