wrapped in its own dreams and thoughts forgot the past,
grew careless of the future, and was lost to all but
present interests and enjoyment.
Morning brought stirring events; the pleasant lap-
lap of the water against the boat told me we were
moving before I had looked out of my straw shutters, but
I had hardly passed to full consciousness when a violent
bump and a fierce altercation, followed by the sound of
bleating protest, told me that something unusual had
occurred. I dressed quickly to ascertain the cause of
such early excitement, and found myself the proud but
unpleased possessor of a whole sheep. I sternly
demanded reason, and was informed that the prow of
my ark had been run into the bank, thereby breaking
the leg of the aforesaid sheep, the owner of which had
instantly demanded compensation. Reason was
plausible, but I had my doubts. A sheep is a visible
thing, and a boat cannot run into it unknown of the
four propellers. Moreover, there was in Assiza’s eye
a look I had begun to understand, a look that said, “ To
what extent may the Sahib be victimised ? ” “ The
sheep is but small,” he urged in extenuation, “ mutton
is good, the price is but one rupee.” That clinched the
matter. One rupee was not too much to pay for the
feasting of my crew, if I also had a portion. Nominally,
of course, the entire sheep was eaten at the Sahib’s
table. No more sheep were run into for many days,
and the hours seemed likely to pass without mark or
event, a mere floating between blue waters and blue
banks, blue skies overhead, blue hills on every side,
when a tremendous shout startled me, and there was a
great snake crossing the stream, head held high, a
curious object, and quite harmless. Assiza seized it
as it landed, throwing it over his head and back into
the water again. “ Such a one last year turned round
a Sahib’s leg and bit his putties (leg bandages), but it
failed to do harm.” Happy valley, where even the
“ poison worms ” are innocuous, perhaps by order of the
great chief of the clan, Nag, the snake god, who is
satisfied by being so persistently and consistently
worshipped through long ages by many folk and many
religions.
Later we passed Bijbeharra, a beautiful town, with
a splendid bridge of the usual Kashmirian type, supported
by enormous square piles of alternate logs and
stones in layers, usually laid on a foundation of sunken
boat-loads of stones. The enormous force of the stream
is somewhat broken by the triangular wooden abutment,
weighted with boulders, with the apex towards the
currents. Largish trees had grown from between the
logs, and with its vast camping-ground shaded by
giant chenaars, carpeted with sweet-scented white iris
and overlooking the private gardens of the Maharajah,
it was a very lovely spot. A large Hindu temple had
recently been built for the prince, the steps
approaching it formed of carved blocks, evidently
taken from some of the ancient Hindu buildings in the
neighbourhood. Late in the afternoon two striking-
looking women passed along under the trees, their
ample scarlet petticoats, immensely high-peaked caps,
and flashing black eyes a curious contrast to the
drab-coloured housewives of the country. They were
like gorgeous tropical birds in a home wood, and I
guessed they belonged to the gipsy folk—that curious
race so apart from all settled life that they are like
immigrants from another planet, called Banjaras in
India, Watals in Kashmir, Romany people at home.
The characteristics of wild beauty, rough musical talent,