315 JOURNAL, BOMBAY NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETY, Vol. VIII. 
acres of net work, beneath which the tender ferns might grow. The little 
stream wandered on in close touching curves round the cliffs and with 
cheerful leaping over obstructions, and drinking in enjoyment at every grove 
we followed. Here culling a tempting bunch of orchids, or casting a fly 
over a ripple, there stopping to admire the exquisite effect of a bunch of maiden 
hair ferns set off with caladiums and begonias. On we wandered, and as the 
sun mounted higher, the butterflies came out and hurried past us in an endless 
gorgeous procession. Charaues were there in half a dozen strong-bodied varieties. 
Delicate Lycenid@ gleamed a moment in the hot sun, or formed a fairy ring 
over some small pool, Ornithoptera pompeus, with his broad expanse and 
yellow satin under-wings, sailed by proudly, and as a rule just out of reach. 
Flitting in the shade a dusky Melanitis or an Yphthima would tempt us 
to arm-reaching tripping rushes over the bamboo roots. Delias sailimg tempt- 
ingly just over-head seemed to know our exact reach and keep beyond it. 
While Enthalia, Lebadia and Lepidia Iomene outspread on the shining leaves 
were missed over and over again. On we went, our cigarette box getting fuller 
and fuller of paper envelopes and alas! also our gut-casts and flies disappear- 
ing rapidly. The pilgrim followed us anxiously ; he objected to pilgrimages 
whose route seemed so obscure, and during which he had to carry so much, 
what he called, “cutchra.” However the sahibs are all mad, and there is but 
one God, so he came on gloomy but mute. We then calculate that we allowed 
for 12 miles, that it is now one o’clock, we have been travelling for over six 
hours and must have covered 12 miles ; but there is no appearance of the next 
camp. We are now showing signs of wear and tear ; we are both wet to the 
waist as the only road is the bed of the stream. I have lost the sole off one of 
my boots, and the pilgrim is rapidly losing his temper. We have a goodly stock 
of butterflies, and the pilgrim is laden with orchids, but we have lost all our flies 
and not one fish to show. We have seen nothing shootable and have nothing 
eatable. Inward pangs remind us that it is a long time since ‘‘chota hazri;” and 
the more remote our chance of satisfying the pangs become, the more we 
remind each other that even “ bully” beef has its attractions, that under certain 
conditions preserved potatoes can be eaten with relish and that whisky 1s no 
despicable drink, and we are both Scots! As we go on, we begin to lose our 
appreciation of the scenery; here and there we distinctly disparage hill and 
stream ; we even mutter about this beastly country. As we get tired, tumbles 
become frequent and are endured in gloomy silence and watched without 
sympathy. The pilgrim disdains our companionship, and, though keeping 
behind, declines to follow the route we affect. The stream has been getting 
broader and deeper, and we have either to wade down it or scramble along 
the rocky banks. Three o'clock comes and no signs of camp ; but instead a 
heavy thunderstorm comes up suddenly and drenches us ; we huddle through 
the worst of it in a small bat-lined cave, but are disturbed by the gloomy 
pilgrim who tries to prove that the stream is rising. The pilgrim’s 
