206 PINJOR 



to Kalka. Every one hurries on to his journey's 

 end up in the mountains, and few know of the 

 charming old garden they are passing, hidden 

 in its dark mango groves, only a few miles away. 

 Pinjor, to others the place of the " five 

 brothers," will always mean to me the Garden 

 of Butterflies, as I saw it first in the closing days 

 of a brilliant Indian October. Clouds of butter- 

 flies there were, hovering over the wild tangle of 

 zinnias and marigolds, rising round the passer- 

 by with a soft bewildering flutter, and filling 

 all the sombre lower garden with their flecks of 

 golden light ; for most of them were golden 

 brown like their favourite flowers, the marigolds. 

 There were large brown butterflies with black 

 veins, and golden brown ones with spotted 

 markings ; big black swallow-tails, with a sulphur 

 band across their lower wings ; and gay white 

 butterflies streaked with black, and painted on 

 their outer side with bars of red and yeUow. One 

 was a curious, soft dull brown, like some huge 

 daylight moth which had been tempted out 

 from under the deep shade of the mango trees 

 to join its bright companions in the sunshine. 

 Many tiny creatures fluttered by too restlessly 

 to show their real colours ; but the prettiest 



