148 HOME LIFE IN THE HILLS.
On our arrival at Pore I found heaps of letters and
newspapers, always a most welcome sight in India, and
the dozen different London journals sent by kind
friends, were food enough to last me until the
subsequent mail brought a fresh supply. People at
home have little idea how much an old paper is valued
out there. During the remainder of my stay in the
Mysore hills, which now rapidly drew to a close,
visitors occasionally turned up, although our nearest
neighbour lived five miles off, an exceedingly kind-
hearted widow lady, who managed her own coffee
estate, and who supplied me with medicine and other
things when I was down with fever, for the latter few
can escape; it is not of a malignant character and soon
gives in to a dose or two of quinine, else there is no prevailing
sickness here, and the former only occurs after
the heavy rains when the mouldering leaves and
vegetation create a miasma. The natives, at times,
suffer much from boils, but cholera is rare up
here.
Amongst my parting rambles in the neighbourhood
I had a very agreeable trip to Mercara, the capital of
Coorg, a considerable military station, which lies in a
hollow surrounded by hills; here I spent a few pleasant
days at the bungalow of a successful coffee planter,
where I was most hospitably entertained, and I was
MONSOON. 149
glad of the opportunity of seeing the method of cultivation
followed in that province.
The monsoon in these hills, with rare exceptions,
sets in about the beginning of June, and the downpour
continues with longer or shorter interruptions
until the middle of September; during that time
seedlings of coffee are planted out from the nurseries,
vacancies filled up and new plantations formed. That
operation completed, weeding becomes the principal
work, requiring all the hands that can be obtained.
This is a trying time for the occupants of the
bungalow, whose thatched roof then almost resembles
a sieve ; every available vessel is set to catch the rain,
still pools of water are unavoidable throughout the
house, and fires become most acceptable.
Crop time was now at hand, and I only delayed my
departure from Pore to witness the harvesting operation.
Of course, the time of the year when coffee
gardens look their best is during the few days, or
sometimes a week, in the middle of March, when every
bud opens under the influence of the so-called blossom
or mango showers, and when slopes and valleys become
all at once covered, as it were, with a thick layer of"
snow-flakes, whilst the perfume—a strong spice or
vanilla scent—pervades the atmosphere for miles
around. That is the time par excellence, I say, to