the elephants were doing with a great big caste-mark of Vishnu on their foreheads, in a temple to Siva, was a bit beyond me, especially since one of the shrines formerly dedicated to that deity has been closed for years, owing to some internal row.

There is even more activity at night than during the day. Indeed, that is the better time to see the temple life. Thousands of little saucer lamps give a glow to those almost endless and depressing halls which appear anything but reassuring during the day. This seems to be the time for the women, who arrive by the hundreds with the coming of darkness. After a visit to the main shrine, they repair to an altar consisting of a great slab which looks more like a flat tombstone than anything else, over which the priests preside, and around which the devotees march nine times after pouring oil into a brazier opposite. Beyond a constant mumbling by the priests, one could not make head or tail out of the ritual. Even my guide could not enlighten me. The flickering lights, deep shadows, and pungent odor of burning gingelly oil were more suggestive of Black Magic and Walpurgis Night than anything I have ever seen, and one had to pinch himself to be sure he had not drifted out of the twentieth century back into an earlier incarnation.

The inner corridors of the temple are more or less shrouded in gloom as you approach Siva's shrine in the center. The eye strives ineffectively to pierce the shadow that lies beyond the outer portal. That this is a theatrically conceived idea of the priests, there can be no question. You catch a glimmer of a high-light which your attendant will tell you is the altar cloth upon which the lingam stands. You are properly impressed up to the moment that he informs you, with considerable pride, that each succeeding day the emblem is reverently washed with Ganges water, brought from Benares, the sale of which constitutes

in all India. Try and imagine this 'city of magnificent distances' filled with two-story houses built of pink stucco and green blinds, the upper stories lavishly covered with geometrical designs and crude drawings of elephants, peacocks, and rajahs going to war, all canopied by the flawless blue of an Indian sky. That is the prevailing color scheme of Jeypore and harmonizes effectively with the sandy desert by which it is surrounded. It is notable, indeed, that the idea of a city of these proportions should have found expression through a Hindu potentate in 1728. If our national capital had been in existence at that time, one might think that Jey Singh II had evolved Jeypore as the result of a visit. It is an odd experience to walk down the main street and be elbowed off the curb onto the pavement by a sacred bull who has just wandered up on the sidewalk in order to sample the vegetable-man's display. If you could understand Hindustani - the native language you would hear him say, 'Welcome, brother!' His eyes, however, would give the lie to his speech, notwithstanding which he wouldn't dare remove the greens. And all this by reason of the great sanctity of Mr. Bull.

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You will find yourself picking your way amongst the grain merchants with their goods spread all over the sidewalk, and women in the midst grinding- two each an ancient hand-mill, thus literally picturing the Scriptural quotation: 'Two women will be grinding at the mill.' You will see women in the middle of the street drying long sections of newly dyed fabric for saris the native dress in which a native woman can swathe herself most gracefully in less time than it takes to tell it. Meantime, a police officer on a camel ambles leisurely through the crowd, while veritable clouds of pigeons settle in the public square where they are fed by the children. In fact I have seen the sky almost blotted out for a moment by the thousands of

pigeons that cover Jeypore's streets. They make the plaza of Saint Mark's, Venice, look infantile by comparison. Raising your eyes you will see a huge electric sign of the word 'Welcome' on the crest of a mountain overlooking the city. Just about the time that you are congratulating yourself upon Jeypore's recognition of your importance, your guide will probably tell you that sign was erected in honor of the Prince of Wales's visit several years ago.

I have said that Jey Singh II was an astronomer. He was more he reformed the calendar. You will doubtless want to visit his observatory. It is an open courtyard, taking up half the space of a city block, filled with curious and fantastic instruments which he designed. Antiquated as they are, they are adequate to the calculating of eclipses. Also, his zodiacal dial enabled him to find the moment of exact noon any day in the year: the first instance on record of a Rajput chieftain being pressed for time. It is well worth a visit.

A permit, which is easily secured, admits you to the grounds of the Maharajah's palace, at the foot of which is a large artificial lake. Laden with a half-dozen chunks of raw meat, your conductor, taking his place on the parapet overlooking the lake, will call loudly, in the native dialect: 'Brother!' Immediately, a half-dozen hungry, twentyfoot crocodiles will slide off the mud flat on the far side of the lake and come to the call. The expertness with which they catch the meat thrown them indicates their familiarity with the term 'brother' and inspires a correspondingly wholesome respect on your part for the relationship. It is almost too real to be comfortable.

One of the most pretentious buildings on the public square is a four-story, garishly ornamented and turreted building erected by the Maharajah, known as the 'Hall of the Winds.' It is well named, because above the first floor