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Orion Golightly, B.C.S., sings:— Skin may be scorching, and brain may be batter; Head may be swimming, and tongue may be white; Liver uneasy—but what does it matter? The mail brings Her into the station to-night!

Sadly the heat from July to September Has soddened and shaken a fever-racked frame: Complexions may change but She will remember That, even in India, the Heart is the same.

Scant time indeed have I had to be merry, Little of leave and less of delight, Stewing all day in that frowsy Kutcherry; What do I care?—She is coming to-night!

Tennis be hanged! I am off to the Station, "Tum-tum men tattu hamara rukho!" Ages it seems since in deep tribulation I watched Her departure, just five months ago.

Back from Olympus to damp-laden, steamy Plains, and her lover who longs for the sight, My Darling returns; and Creation may see me The happiest man in the Province to-night.

My bearer's a drunkard; my sais cribs the gram; My one polo-pony's as lame as a post: I know I shall mull my next Persian exam.; My pay is a scanty five-fifty at most.

I'm only a Stunt—sahib employed in the "Revenue;" But yet I am dearer in Somebody's sight Than all the big bosses at Simla She ever knew; And I'm off to the Station to meet Her to-night.

(Climbs into tum-tum and exit tumultuously.)