At last we cleared the wood, and, plunging across a perfect slough of deep
mud, crawled on to the verandah of the Rampur forest-house, where we sat
anxiously watching the hillside until we saw our faithful ponies safely
sliding down the hill.
_Thursday, May_ 18.--The changes of weather in this country are sudden and
surprising. This morning we woke to a perfect day--the sun bathing the
warm hillsides, the picturesque brown village, and the brilliant masses of
snowy blossoming fruit-trees with a radiant smile. And, but for the
tell-tale riot of the streams and the sponginess of the compound, there
was nothing to betray the past misdeeds of the clerk of the weather.
At noon we set out to cover the short distance that lay between us and
Kunis, where we had made tryst with Satarah. The country was like a series
of English woodland glades--watered by many purling streams, and bright
with masses of apple blossom; the turf around the trees all white and pink
with petals torn from the branches by the recent storms. Clumps of fir
clothed the hills with sombre green--a perfect background to a perfect
picture.
The flowers all along our path to-day were much in evidence after the rain.
Little prickly rose-bushes (_R. Webbiana_) were covered with pink blossoms
just bursting into full glory; bushes of white may, yellow berberis,
Daphne (_Oleoides?_), and many another flowering shrub grew in tangled
profusion, while pimpernel (red and blue), a small androsace
(_rotundifolia_), hawks-bit, stork's bill, wild geranium, a tiny mallow,
eye-bright, forget-me-not, a little yellow oxalis, a speedwell, and many
another, to me unknown, blossom starred the roadside.
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