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legend runs, with an emerald, the glow of whose green 

 rays will give for ever relief from the most dangerous 

 snake bite. To the south Mahadeo, sacred mountain, 

 much revered by Hindus, and far away hemming in the 

 Happy Valley on the southern side the far-stretching 

 range of the Pir Panjal, truly mighty barricades, each 

 " pir " (peak) the centre of innumerable stories and 

 traditions, half-worshipped by the country folk for its 

 size and aloofness, consulted by them with anxious 

 prayer as the seat of an incorruptible oracle as the time 

 of harvest approaches and signs of the weather are 

 wanted. Baltal itself is a mere collection of huts, and 

 from them the real ascent of the pass, the scene in the 

 Middle Ages of a great fight, when the Drasmen fought 

 their best, but in vain, to prevent the Yarkandi invaders 

 entering and wintering in Kashmir. 



My return to camp was a slow progress, so many tiny 

 flowers were springing up taking possession of the 

 earth on the retreat of the snow T s, armies of bright 

 primulas, spotted irises, small members of the lily clan, 

 whose examination would well repay the " earnest 

 botanist." My men I met on the road, being anxious 

 lest I should be overtaken by the storm that seemed 

 imminent, and my supper was again an affair of 

 " holding hard and eating fast," as the wind struggled 

 with the guy ropes and made incursion as the flap was 

 opened to allow ingress. 



At midnight the wind sank and the moon 

 rose, casting an unearthly radiance over sloping 

 grassland and snowy heights. The small native 

 village was hidden from my sight by the sheltering 

 high ground behind it, and my men had wandered off 

 as the weather improved to have a " crack " with chums 



