A welcome sight was the snug rest-house, perched upon a hillock above a fussy little stream and surrounded by a fine clump of deodars.

A tiny lawn in front was decorated with an artificial tank full of water-plants, and through the opening, among the trees, we saw the snowy crest of Shambrywa and the Kaj-nag rising over the deeply-wooded foothills.

Drogmulla was so fascinating a spot, and the weather was so remarkably fine, that we made up our minds to remain here for a few days.  That old red-bearded snake, the shikari, has sent the Colonel into a seventh heaven of anticipation by pointing to the encircling forest with promise of “pul-lenty baloo, sahib, this pul-lace.”  We straightway ordained a honk.

Our sick soldier is so much better since leaving Gulmarg that he is able to hop “around” with considerable activity on his crutches.

Saturday, September 30, 4 P.M.—­Walter and I have been bear-honking all day in a district reputed to be simply crawling with bears.  I love bear-honking; it is such a peaceful occupation.

After a stiff and very hot scramble up a rugged hillside covered with the infuriating scrub through which nothing but a reptile could crawl easily, the spot is reached within short range of which (in the opinion of the “oldest inhabitant,” backed up by the “Snake”) the bear must pass.

Here the battery of rifles and guns is carefully arranged, and I proceed to wipe my heated brow and settle down to the calm enjoyment of the honk.  Drawing forth my cigar-case, I am soon wreathed in the fragrant clouds engendered by the incineration of a halfpenny cheroot, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, I spread out my writing or sketching materials and proceed to scribble or paint, calm in the knowledge that nothing on earth is in the least likely to disturb the flow of ideas, or interrupt the laying on of a broad flat wash.  Now and again, lazily, I lean back to watch the witless hoverings of a big butterfly, or sleepily listen to the increasing sound of the tom-toms and the yells of the beaters, whose voices, as those of demons of the pit, rend the peaceful air and add to my sense of Olympian aloofness!

A feeling of drowsiness steals over me; that succulent cold chikor, followed by a generous slice of cake upon which I so nobly lunched, clouds somewhat my active faculties, and the article—­“A Bear Battue in the Himalayas”—­which I am engaged in writing for the Field—­seems to flag a little.

Come, come!  Begone dull sloth—­let me continue—­

“As the sound of the beaters swells upon the ear, and the thunder of the tom-toms grows more insistent, the keen-eyed sportsman grasps more firmly the lever of his four-barrelled Nordenfeldt and prepares to play upon the bears his hail of stinging missiles.  Hark!  The plot is thickening, behind yon dense screen at the end of the cover the ph——­ bears are beginning to crowd, the pattering of their