joins the Indus far away in Sind.

A broad and level road stretched straight and white between a double row
of stark poplars, reminding one of the poplar-guarded ways of Picardy;
also (as in France) not only were the miles marked, but also the
thirty-two subdivisions thereof. On the right hand the ground sloped
slowly up in a succession of wooded heights, the foothills of the Pir
Panjal, whose snow-crowned peaks enclose the Kashmir valley on the south.
Opposite, through a maze of leafless trees, one caught occasional gleams
of water where the winding reaches of the river flowed gently from the
turquoise haze where lay the Wular Lake, and beyond--clear and pale in
the clear, crisp air--shone a glorious range of snow mountains, stretching
away past where we knew Srinagar must lie, to be lost in the distant haze
where sky and mountain merged in the north-east.

By the roadside we passed many small lakes, or "jheels," full of duck, but
as there was never any cover by the sides I could not see how the duck
were to be approached.

We lunched at the fascinating little bungalow at Patan (pronounced
"Puttun"), about half-way between Baramula and Srinagar. The Rest House
stands back from an apparently extremely populous and thriving village,
the inhabitants whereof were all engaged in conversation of a highly
animated kind! In the compound stood a fine group of chenar trees
(_Platanus orientalis_) whose noble trunks and graceful branches showed in
striking contrast to the slender stems of the poplars. The guide-book
informed us that an ancient temple lay in ruins near by, but we trusted to
a later visit and determined to push on. By-and-by a fort-crowned hill
rose above the tree-tops. This we took to be Hari Parbat, the ancient
citadel of Srinagar, and presently, through the poplars and the willows