Here it has rained with vehemence ever since they left; up in the high
ground it has doubtless snowed; and although they were well armed with
cards and whisky, yet it would appear but a poor business to play bridge
all day in a snow-bound tent on the top of the Pir Panjal! Nothing short
of a hundred aces every few minutes could make the game worth the candle!

This spell of bad weather has greatly interfered with the movements of a
large number of the folks who were to leave Gulmarg early this week. Many
got away betimes on Saturday, and a few faced the elements on Sunday, and
a painful experience they must have had.

We had intended to leave next Thursday, and had ordered boats to meet us
at Parana Chauni, but the road will be so bad that I wired this morning to
put off our transport till further orders.

The end of the season at Gulmarg sees the bazaar stock at low water. Eggs,
fowls, cherry brandy, and spirits of wine are "off," also butter, but the
latter scarcity does not affect us, as we make our own in a pickle jar.
The bazaar butter became very bad, probably because the large numbers of
visitors to Gulmarg caused an additional supply to be got from uncleanly
Gujars, so we, by the kindness of the Assistant Resident, had a special
cow detailed to supply us daily with milk at our own door.

That cow was very friendly; I first made its acquaintance one forenoon.
While I was sitting below the verandah sketching, with a dozen lovely
peaches spread by me on the hoards to obtain their final touch of
perfection in the sun before lunch, the cow strolled up. I was much
interested in the sketch, and believed that the cow was too; but when I
looked up at last, expecting to see its eye fixed upon the work in silent
approbation,

"The 'cow' was still there, but the 'peaches' were gone."

In the afternoon the weather showed signs of a desire to amend its ways.
The clouds broke here and there, and, though it still rained heavily, it
became apparent that the clerk of the weather had done his worst, and the
supply of rain was running short. Clad in aquascutic garments, and
surmounted by an ungainly two-rupee bazaar umbrella (my dapper British one
having been annexed by a covetous Mangi)--

"Ombrifuge, Lord love you, case o' rain,
I flopped forth 'sbuddikins on my own ten toes."

The whole slope in front of the hut was a trickle of water, threading the
dying stalks of dock and ragwort, and hurrying down to add its di