MAY 



The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. 

 The Minstrelsy of the Woods. 



Low from the brink the waters shrink ; 

 The deer all snuff for rain ; 

 The panting cattle search for drink 

 Cracked glebe and dusty plain ; 

 The whirlwind, like a furnace blast, 

 Sweeps clouds of darkening sand. 



WATERFIELD, Indian Ballads. 



Now the burning summer sun 

 Hath unchalleng'd empire won 

 And the scorching winds blow free, 

 Blighting every herb and tree. 



R. T. H. GRIFFITH. 



MAY in the plains of India ! What unpleasant 

 memories it recalls ! Stifling nights in which 

 sleep comes with halting steps and departs 

 leaving us unrefreshed. Long, dreary days 

 beneath the punkah in a closed bungalow 

 which has ceased to be enlivened by the voices 

 of the children and the patter of their little 

 feet. Hot drives to office, under a brazen sky 



79 



