In the eyes of the Englishman December in Northern India is a month of halcyon days, of days dedicated to sport under perfect climatic conditions, of bright sparkling days spent at the duck tank, at the snipe jhil, in the sal forest, or among the Siwaliks, days on which office files rest in peace, and the gun, the rifle and the rod are made to justify their existence.  Most Indians, unfortunately, hold a different opinion of December.  These love not the cool wind that sweeps across the plains.  To them the rapid fall of temperature at sunset is apt to spell pneumonia.

The average villager is a hot-weather organism.  He is content with thin cotton clothing which he wears year in year out, whether the mercury in the thermometer stand at 115 degrees or 32 degrees.  However, many of the better-educated Indians have learned from Englishmen how to protect themselves against cold; we may therefore look forward to the time when even the poorest Indian will be able to enjoy the health-bringing, bracing climate of the present month.

By the 1st December the last of the spring crops has been sown, most of the cotton has been picked, and the husbandmen are busy cutting and pressing the sugar-cane and irrigating the poppy and the rabi cereals.

The crop-sown area is covered with a garment that, seen from a little distance, appears to be made of emerald velvet.  Its greenness is intensified by contrast with the dried-up grass on the grazing lands.  In many places the mustard crop has begun to flower; the bright yellow blooms serve to enliven the somewhat monotonous landscape.  In the garden the chrysanthemums and the loquat trees are still in flower; the poinsettias put forth their showy scarlet bracts and the roses and violets begin to produce their fragrant flowers.

The bird choir is composed of comparatively few voices.  Of the seasonal choristers the grey-headed flycatchers are most often heard.  The fantail flycatchers occasionally sing their cheerful lay, but at this season they more often emit a plaintive call, as if they were complaining of the cold.

Some of the sunbirds are still in undress plumage; a few have not yet come into song, these give vent only to harsh scolding notes.  From the thicket emanate sharp sounds—­tick-tick, chee-chee, chuck-chuck, chiff-chaff; these are the calls of the various warblers that winter with us.  Above the open grass-land the Indian skylarks are singing at Heaven’s gate; these birds avoid towns and groves and gardens, in consequence their song is apt to be overlooked by human beings.  Very occasionally the oriole utters a disconsolate-sounding tew; he is a truly tropical bird; it is only when the sun flames overhead out of a brazen sky that he emits his liquid notes.  Here and there a hoopoe, more vigorous than his fellows, croons softly—­uk, uk, uk.  The coppersmith now and then gives forth his winter note—­a subdued wow; this is heard chiefly at the sunset hour.