house-boat through is indeed an adventure. The current hurries it along at
lightning speed, keeping the crew busy using their oars as poles to
prevent the boat being dashed against the banks. We thus come out again
into the open river.

The sky had been heavily clouded, a damp wind blowing, with occasional
showers of rain. The crew were all shivering with cold. Such wet and
gloomy days in the cold weather are eminently disagreeable, and I have
spent a wretched lifeless morning. At two in the afternoon the sun came
out, and since then it has been delightful. The banks are now high and
covered with peaceful groves and the dwellings of men, secluded and full
of beauty.

The river winds in and out, an unknown little stream in the inmost
_zenana_ of Bengal, neither lazy nor fussy; lavishing the wealth of
her affection on both sides, she prattles about common joys and sorrows
and the household news of the village girls, who come for water, and sit
by her side, assiduously rubbing their bodies to a glowing freshness with
their moistened towels.

This evening we have moored our boat in a lonely bend. The sky is clear.
The moon is at its full. Not another boat is to be seen. The moonlight
glimmers on the ripples. Solitude reigns on the banks. The distant village
sleeps, nestling within a thick fringe of trees. The shrill, sustained
chirp of the cicadas is the only sound.




SHAZADPUR,