SPRING FESTIVAL
ing, the weary pleasure-seekers make their ablutions and return to their work, sober citizens once more.
Different rites and ceremonies are performed in different parts of India, but the custom which is universal to this day is the throwing of red powder at each other in the streets, in market-places and in houses. It is the carnival time of India, and none are free from this assault. The grey-haired minister has his gorgeous turban crimsoned by the mischievous boy in the streets, and the priest of the sacred temple has a shower of pink water sprinkled on his silken robe by the wanton woman of the bazaar!
Modest women avoid public places to escape the inevitable shower of red powder, and still more the street songs which would make them stop their ears. For the rest, the Festival draws men closer together as members of one community, and places the high and the low on a footing of equality, and even of familiarity, if it be only for a time. Philosophy smiles at these childish festivals and games of olden times; but it were well for humanity if something of that joyousness had survived in these days, when the pursuit of wealth is the one absorbing occupation, and the display of wealth the one diversion!
It was the last day of the Spring Festival, and Nobo Kumar himself issued out of the Palace with a face on which a beaming kindliness had wiped out all traces of thought. He was followed by Gokul Das, bent with age and care, but alive to the joyousness of the occasion.
Birnagar was crowded by thousands of people who had flocked from distant parts of the estate to share the festivities. And as Nobo Kumar and his com-
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