NATIVE BUTTER. 10:5 



cultivated valley. Herds of goats with long silky coats, 

 and black water buffaloes with big useless-looking horns 

 lying flat back on their heads, are grazing on all sides. 

 This evening they bring us butter made from buffaloes' 

 milk. But although the pasture seems so rich, the milk 

 and butter are of the usual poor, thin quality. The 

 butter especially would make a Jersey cow-owner cry. It 

 is perfectly white, looks like cold cream, and tastes of 

 nothing — when it is not rancid. 



About dusk we reach the little village of Sara, perched 

 high on an almost precipitous mountain where two torrents 

 meet. It consists of three or four flat-roofed houses and 

 a temple, and is the last inhabited place on our route, 

 till we cross the mountain range before us, and enter 

 the Chamba valleys. There is no flat spot near the 

 village, so we descend some two hundred feet, ami pitch 

 our tents in what seems a charming nook on the bank 



of the stream. 



November mh.—We halt, and take the opportunity 

 to air and turn out our things, which drives the ayah, 

 the laziest of creatures, frantic. She compels one's admira- 

 tion, for she has brought the art of doing nothing to 

 absolute perfection. Lately, she has hit on the plan of 

 sitting down some little distance off, when the halting 

 place comes in sight, and remaining concealed until the 

 tents are up, beds made, and everything prepared for the 



