9 6 7 HE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



perfection of the instrument is worthy of attention, for its 

 virtues are rare. I find nothing equal to it. It is better 

 than Eno's Fruit Salt. To the jaded office slave, the brain- 

 worn student, the overwrought literary or professional man, 

 I recommend this panacea. 



Games are useful in their way, and sport is much better ; 

 but good sport is not often within easy reach of a Bombay 

 man. The hills are, and this is the season when a morn- 

 ing on an Indian mountain-top is not to be bartered for 

 anything that any climate in the world produces. When 

 the sun has just risen, and the cold delicious morning air 

 waves the scented grass, with the frozen green beetles 

 clinging to it, and the birds sing, and you hear them sing, 

 because there is no Babel of worldly noises and vile 

 clangour of coarse-minded crows to drown their music, 

 at such times to ramble aimlessly along, and simply drink 

 in the enjoyment which seems to be poured out upon the 

 face of nature, makes a man feel that his capacity for pure 

 animal happiness is too limited. He cannot take it all in. 

 Much seems to overflow and run to waste. Then the sun 

 grows warmer, and the freshness of the morning fades a 

 little ; but the man who can handle a butterfly-net need 

 not go home and mope. His time is just beginning, for 



