Then the trouble began.  The coolies were bone-lazy, the admiral and first-lieutenant were sulky, and the weather was stuffy and threatened thunder—­the conditions were altogether detrimental to placidity of temper.

By sunset we had the shikari, the kitchen-maid, and the sweeper on the tow-rope, and even the great and good Sabz Ali was seen to bear a hand in poling.  Much recrimination now ensued between Sabz Ali and the Admiral, and the whole crowd made the air resound with Kashmiri “language,” every one, apparently, abusing everybody else, and making very nasty remarks about their lady ancestors.

At 10 P.M.  I got four more coolies from a village, apparently chiefly inhabited by dogs, who deeply resented our proximity, and at 2 o’clock this morning we reached the haven where we would be—­Avantipura.

This morning I discharged the Srinagar coolies and took a fresh lot, who pull better and talk less.

How differently things may be put and yet the truth retained.  Yesterday we reclined at our ease in our cosy floating cottage, towed up the lovely river by a picturesque crew of bronze Kashmiris, the swish of the passing water only broken by their melodious voices.  The brilliancy of the morning gave way in the afternoon to a soft haze which fell over the snowy ranges, mellowing their clear tones to a soft and pearly grey, while the reflections of the big chenars which graced the river bank deepened us the afternoon shadows lengthened and spread over the wide landscape.  Towards evening we strolled along the river bank plucking the ripe mulberries, and idly watching the terns and kingfishers busily seeking their suppers over the glassy water; and at night we sat on deck while the moon rose higher in the quiet sky, and the dark river banks assumed a clearer ebony as she rose above the lofty fringe of trees, until the towing-path lay a track of pure silver reaching away to the dim belt of woodland which shrouded Avantipura.

That is a perfectly accurate description of the day, and so is this:—­

It was very hot—­and there is nothing hid from the heat of the sun on board a wooden house-dounga.  The flies, too, were unusually malevolent, and I could scarcely paint, and my wife could hardly read by reason of their unwelcome attentions.

The coolies were a poor lot and a slack, and as the day grew stuffier and sultrier so did their efforts on the tow-path become “small by degrees and beautifully less.”

That irrepressible bird—­the old cock—­refused to consider himself as under arrest in his hen-coop, and insisted upon crowing about fifteen times a minute with that fidgeting irregularity which seems peculiar to certain unpleasant sounds, and which retains the ear fixed in nervous tension for the next explosion of defiance or pride, or whatever evil impulse it is which causes a cock to crow.

Driven overboard by the cock, and a feeling that exercise would be beneficial, we landed in the afternoon, and plodded along the bank for some miles.  The innumerable mulberry trees are loaded with ripe fruit, the ground below being literally black with fallen berries.  We ate some, and pronounced them to be but mawkish things.