band, lying merged in the edge of her deserted bed, like the thin line of the old moon in its last phase at the limit of the eastern horizon. This thin, worn river, athirst for the rains, furnishes another simile.
A fine road runs from Cuttack to Puri. It rises high out of the fields on either side, and is shaded with great big trees, mostly mangoes, which in this season are in flower, charging the air with their cloying fragrance. It passes by village after village surrounded with groves of mango, aswattha, cocoanut and day palm.
Here and there half dry water courses crossed our path, and near these, strings of mat-covered bullock-carts were drawn up; little thatched sweet-meat shops lined the road-side; and in shelters under the shade of trees pilgrims were busy attending to their meals. At the sight of each newly arriving carriage or cart, beggars swarmed round with a variety of wails in a medley of tongues.
As we drew nearer and nearer to Puri, the concourse of pilgrims grew denser and denser, some scattered in groups along the road, others under the trees or by the side of pools, stretched in repose, or cooking their food. At frequent intervals there came temples, pilgrim rest houses and big artificial tanks.[1]
- ↑ Rectangular pieces of water.
