Flocks of
paroquets with most gorgeous plumage--blue, red, green, gold, and every
conceivable hue--flit hither and thither, or sweep past in whirring
flight.
Some of the native pedestrians pause for a moment and cast a wondering
look at the unaccustomed spectacle of a Sahib and a bicycle reclining
alone beneath a wayside tree. All salaam deferentially as they pass by,
but there is a refreshing absence of the spirit of obtrusion that
sometimes made life a burden among the Turks and Persians. In his disgust
at the aggressive curiosity of the Persians, Captain E, my companion from
Meshed to Constantinople, had told me, "You'll find, when you get to
India, that a Sahib there is a Sahib," and the strikingly deferential
demeanor of the natives I have encountered on the road to-day forcibly
reminds me of his remarks.
The myriads of soldier-ants crossing the road in solid phalanx or
climbing the trees, the winged jewels of the air flitting silently here
and there, the picturesque natives and their deferential salaams--all
these only serve to wean one's thoughts from the oppressive heat for a
moment. At times one fairly gasps for breath and looks involuntarily
about in forlorn search of some place of escape, if only for a moment,
from the stifling atmosphere.
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