JULY

  Alas! creative nature calls to light
  Myriads of winged forms in sportive flight,
  When gathered clouds with ceaseless fury pour
  A constant deluge in the rushing shower.
                                   Calcutta:  A Poem.

In July India becomes a theatre in which Nature stages a mighty transformation scene.  The prospect changes with kaleidoscopic rapidity.  The green water-logged earth is for a time overhung by dull leaden clouds; this sombre picture melts away into one, even more dismal, in which the rain pours down in torrents, enveloping everything in mist and moisture.  Suddenly the sun blazes forth with indescribable brilliance and shines through an atmosphere, clear as crystal, from which every particle of dust has been washed away.  Fleecy clouds sail majestically across the vaulted firmament.  Then follows a gorgeous sunset in which changing colours run riot through sky and clouds—­pearly grey, jet black, dark dun, pale lavender, deep mauve, rich carmine, and brightest gold.  These colours fade away into the darkness of the night; the stars then peep forth and twinkle brightly.  At the approach of “rosy-fingered” dawn their lights go out, one by one.  Then blue tints appear in the firmament which deepen into azure.  The glory of the ultramarine sky does not remain long without alloy:  clouds soon appear.  So the scene ever changes, hour by hour and day by day.  Had the human being who passes July in the plains but one window to the soul and that the eye, the month would be one of pure joy, a month spent in the contemplation of splendid dawns, brilliant days, the rich green mantle of the earth, the majesty of approaching thunderclouds, and superb sunsets.  But, alas, July is not a month of unalloyed pleasure.  The temperature is tolerably low while the rain is actually falling; but the moment this ceases the European is subjected to the acute physical discomforts engendered by the hot, steamy, oppressive atmosphere, the ferocity of the sun’s rays, and the teasing of thousands of biting and buzzing insects which the monsoon calls into being.  Termites, crickets, red-bugs, stink-bugs, horseflies, mosquitoes, beetles and diptera of all shapes and sizes arise in millions as if spontaneously generated.  Many of these are creatures of the night.  Although born in darkness all seem to strive after light.  Myriads of them collect round every burning lamp in the open air, to the great annoyance of the human being who attempts to read out of doors after dark.  The spotted owlets, the toads and the lizards, however, take a different view of the invasion and partake eagerly of the rich feast provided for them.  Notwithstanding the existence of chiks, or gauze doors, the hexapods crowd into the lighted bungalow, where every illumination soon becomes the centre of a collection of the bodies of the insects that have been burned by the flame, or scorched by the lamp chimney.