In India--in the plains--people rise before dawn, and it is not till
after some weeks' residence in the cooler atmosphere of the mountains
that they return to the pernicious habit of allowing the sun to be
before them. The hours of early morning, when one either mopes about in
loose flannel clothes, or goes for a gallop on the green _maidán_, are
without exception the most delicious of the day. I shall have occasion
hereafter to describe the morning's proceedings in the plains. On the
day after the events recorded in the last chapter I awoke as usual at
five o'clock, and meandered out on to the verandah to have a look at the
hills, so novel and delicious a sight after the endless flats of the
northwest provinces. It was still nearly dark, but there was a faint
light in the east, which rapidly grew as I watched it, till, turning the
angle of the house, I distinguished a snow-peak over the tops of the
dark rhododendrons, and, while I gazed, the first tinge of distant
dawning caught the summit, and the beautiful hill blushed, as a fair
woman, at the kiss of the awakening sun. The old story, the heaven
wooing the earth with a wondrous shower of gold.

"Prati 'shya sunarî janî"--the exquisite lines of the old Vedic hymn to
the dawn maiden, rose to my lips. I had never appreciated or felt their
truth down in the dusty plains, but here, on the free hills, the glad
welcoming of the morning light seemed to run through every fibre, as
thousands of years ago the same joyful thrill of returning life inspired
the pilgrim fathers of the Aryan race. Almost unconsciously, I softly
intoned the hymn, as I had heard my old Brahmin teacher in Allahabad
when he came and sat under the porch at daybreak, until I was ready for
him--

The lissome heavenly maiden here,