spirits of the creatures and places he evokes with the tale-writer's talisman.
It is the month of Aswin, September, when the story of the Ghât opens. The soft light breath of the early winter's morning air instils new life into men waking from sleep and into the leaves on the trees. The river is high: we see the water rising, till all but four steps of the Ghât are covered, while three old heaps of bricks are made into islands. The fishing boats float up with the rising tide; and the water in its irresponsible gaiety rocks them, splashing on both sides of them. "It shook their ears," says the Ghât, "as if in sheer pleasantry." On the banks the ripe sunshine lies with a delicious yellow colour, like the champak flower, such as it has at no other time of year. The boatmen seize their boats with shouts of "Ram, Ram," and set sail on the flood. A Brahmin comes down to bathe and women come to fetch water. Gradually the Ghât's memories individualise in a single figure—that of the young girl Kusum. When at dawn a small thrush stirred on its nest in a hole of the bricks, and after shaking its tail-feathers flew off piping, that was the signal for Kusum to appear. "When her shadow
