l now, and under the medical ban. The French
lady, were she living still, might be at ease on that score. But her
audacity is not given to all, and many fall back on that poor creature,
lemon-squash, when they are conscious of a thirst worthy of being
quenched by the most imperial beverages in imperial quarts.

Men, being reasonable, must hurry about town when the thermometer is at
something fabulous, wearing black clothes, going to parties, and larding
the lean earth. Beasts are not so foolish. To the pious Brahmin Vishnu
accords the power of becoming what animal he pleases, with a break in the
lease, so to speak, when circumstances alter. Had a sage this power at
this moment he would become a cow, standing up to her middle in the
clear, cool water of the Kennet, under the shade of a hanging willow
tree. What bliss can equal that of a cow thus engaged? Her life must,
indeed, be burning with a hard gem-like flame. She must be plucking the
flower of a series of exquisite moments. The rich, deep grass, with the
buttercups and forget-me-nots, is behind her, but she has had enough of
that, and is open to more spiritual pleasures. The kingfishers and water-
wagtails flit about her. The water-rat jumps into the stream with a soft
plash, and his black body scuttles along to the opposite bank. The green
dragon-flies float hither and thither; the beautiful frail-winged water-
flies float over trout too lazy to snatch at them. The cow, in her
sensuous nirvana, may see and marvel at the warm boating-man as he tows
two stout young ladies in a heavy boat, or labours with the oar. Her
pleasure is far more enduring than that of the bathers in the lasher up
stream, and she has an enormous advantage over the contemplative man
trying to lie on the grass and enjoy nature, for he really is not
enjoying nature. The pleasures of lying on the grass are chiefly those
of imagination. You cannot get into a truly comfortable position. Your
back has a lump of grass under it here, or your arm tingles and "falls
asleep," as children say. No attitude will enable you to read, and the
black flies hover around and alight on such of your features as are
tempting--to a fly. Then you begin to be quite sure it is damp, and, as
you have nothing else to sit on, you sit down on your book, which no one
can call comfortable.

The notion of reclining on cushions in a punt is equally fallacious, and,
while promising much, ends in a headache. Be