sari spread on the branches, over the fields; her spring-coloured scarf, no longer damp and limp, fluttering gaily in the breeze. But that aspect of hers is not with us yet, and day after day is cloudy, without a break.
I have prepared myself for the worst by borrowing a copy of Kalidas's Meghaduta from a friend in Cuttack and keeping it by me. If in the Pandua residence, the sky over the spreading fields before me should become softly moist with blue-grey clouds then it will be nice to repeat passages out of it.
Unfortunately I cannot get anything by heart, and the keen enjoyment of being able to repeat lines of poetry at will is not for me. By the time I have rummaged out the book, and hunted for the place, I often cease to want the poem. It is as bad as feeling sad and wanting to weep, but having to wait for a phial of tears to be dispensed by the chemist!
So when I leave town I needs must take quite a number of books with me. Not that I read every one each time, but I never know beforehand which might be wanted. How convenient it would have been if men's minds had regular seasons. When we travel in winter we take only our warm clothes, and we leave our rugs behind in summer. If only we knew when it would be
