We feel our hearts bound at the sight of the distant snows, and the sweet smell of the pines and wild flowers ; and they re-echo a glad alleluia : “ I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help ” — and health ! Yes, whether you can get away for six weeks or six months, there is an escape from the furnace of the fiery plains, and well for those who can take advantage of it ! CHAPTER XVII IN THE PLAINS This is the other side of the shield of truth, and the reader of this and the preceding chapter can — as the showman said to the inquirer as to which was Wellington and which was Blucher in the panorama— pay his penny and take his choice. The writer spent fourteen whole hot weathers in the plains, and proposes to give her experience of how it can be done comfortably and healthfully, premising always that the deci- sion to set the claims of the husband above those of the children is a wise one. That very young children can be kept in the plains suc- cessfully is undeniable. Indeed babies, if nursed by the mother, thrive better there, and as a rule, they do not suffer until the age when the necessity for keeping in the house all day becomes irksome. In these times of depreciated currency many parents cannot afford to send their children home, and in that case the usual arrangement is that the mother should go to the hills with all the children. In some cases this is inevitable, but the writer’s private opinion is, that in many more the proper course is to send the elder children away under a responsible nurse or governess, or to school, and for the mother to stay down with her husband for as long as she can. His risks, his discomforts, are infinitely greater than those run by the chicks in a healthy climate, and most mothers at home have to send their children to school. It is, however, a question on which stereotyped advice is use- less; but that, per se, an Englishwoman cannot stand the hot weather as well, and perhaps better than a man, the writer strenuously denies. Let us suppose then that the reader has nerved herself to give this most unusual reply to the question with which the last chapter opens: “I am not going to the hills unless 199 200 The Complete Indian my husband gets leave.” In this case she must look ahead deliberately and count the cost. That it is an ordeal none will deny ; the more so, because so few face it, and she may be, as the writer has often been, the only lady in the station for months. Naturally, her aim will be to make this ordeal as light as jiossible, and the first step towai-ds this is to keep her house as cool as possible. In Northern India, the writer strongly advocates thermantidotes. These are machines like the old- fashioned winnowing machines — briefly described, a box with a revolving fan, turned either with handle or treadle by a coolie outside. In the sides of the box are Mus khus grass screens, which are kept constantly wetted. By this means the air sent into the room by the revolving fan is sometimes 10 degrees cooler than that outside. During a dust-storm the thermometer placed in the mouth of the thermantidote often falls to 70 degrees, though outside it may be 100 de- grees or more. Never buy a cheap, ramshackle thermantidote. Money expended in a good Johnson’s self-watering machine will never be regretted.

AI-modernized reading of the original text

We feel our hearts bound at the sight of the distant snows, and the sweet smell of the pines and wild flowers; and they re-echo a glad alleluia: “ I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help ” — and health ! Yes, whether you can get away for six weeks or six months, there is an escape from the furnace of the fiery plains, and well for those who can take advantage of it ! CHAPTER XVII IN THE PLAINS This is the other side of the shield of truth, and the reader of this and the preceding chapter can — as the showman said to the inquirer as to which was Wellington and which was Blucher in the panorama— pay his penny and take his choice. The writer spent fourteen whole hot weathers in the plains, and proposes to give her experience of how it can be done comfortably and healthfully, premising always that the decision to set the claims of the husband above those of the children is a wise one. That very young children can be kept in the plains successfully is undeniable. Indeed babies, if nursed by the mother, thrive better there, and as a rule, they do not suffer until the age when the necessity for keeping in the house all day becomes irksome. In these times of depreciated currency many parents cannot afford to send their children home, and in that case the usual arrangement is that the mother should go to the hills with all the children. In some cases this is inevitable, but the writer’s private opinion is, that in many more the proper course is to send the elder children away under a responsible nurse or governess, or to school, and for the mother to stay down with her husband for as long as she can. His risks, his discomforts, are infinitely greater than those run by the chicks in a healthy climate, and most mothers at home have to send their children to school. It is, however, a question on which stereotyped advice is useless; but that, per se, an Englishwoman cannot stand the hot weather as well, and perhaps better than a man, the writer strenuously denies. Let us suppose then that the reader has nerved herself to give this most unusual reply to the question with which the last chapter opens: “I am not going to the hills unless The Complete Indian my husband gets leave.” In this case she must look ahead deliberately and count the cost. That it is an ordeal none will deny ; the more so, because so few face it, and she may be, as the writer has often been, the only lady in the station for months. Naturally, her aim will be to make this ordeal as light as jiossible, and the first step towards this is to keep her house as cool as possible. In Northern India, the writer strongly advocates thermantidotes. These are machines like the oldfashioned winnowing machines — briefly described, a box with a revolving fan, turned either with handle or treadle by a coolie outside. In the sides of the box are Mus khus grass screens, which are kept constantly wetted. By this means the air sent into the room by the revolving fan is sometimes 10 degrees cooler than that outside. During a dust-storm the thermometer placed in the mouth of the thermantidote often falls to 70 degrees, though outside it may be 100 degrees or more. Never buy a cheap, ramshackle thermantidote. Money expended in a good Johnson’s self-watering machine will never be regretted.

The complete Indian housekeeper & cook