Nature, romantic and terrible, confronts one; and the
civilised man sojourning here for a night feels himself
TH E V A L L E Y OF TH E MAHTOON
an alien of the moment, standing upon the brink of
vast and awful arcana.
Half an hour before the dawn I wake to find all
the mists of the night gathered in, like a white sea,
in the valley of the Mahtoon. The clear blue hills rise
up about them as if to protect them in their secluded
home. The full moon, gathering splendour from the
growing dawn hangs above the crest of the western
hills. The first waves o f light come streaming over
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the world as we start, and for a long while we ride in
silence in the company of the morning.
Even in an old world, in the. midst of prosaic and
commonplace surroundings, the spirit of youth is seldom
absent from this first hour of the d a y; but here in
the heart of a country of primeval forests, secret streams,
and sunlit glades, in a world still all but virgin to man,
it thrills with extraordinary joy.
LONG-BOAT ON ITHE MAHTOON R IV ER
Even the stolid Sikh behind me, the man of milk and
butter, is moved by it. “ L o ! ” he says, thrusting forth
his hands, “ lo ! how the morning spreads herself
abroad.”