Gora

It was the rainy season in Calcutta; the morning clouds had scattered, and the sky overflowed with clear sunlight. Binoy-bhusan was standing alone on the upper verandah of his house, watching in leisurely idleness the constant ebb and flow of the passers-by. He had finished his college couiso some time before, but had not yet started any regular work. Ho had written a little for the papers, it is true, and had organised meetings,— but this had not satisfied his mind. And now, this morning, for want of anything in particular to do, he was beginning to feel restless. In front of the shop opposite, a Baul mendicant was stand¬ ing, dressed in the motley robe of those wandering minstrels, and singing : , Into the cage flics the unknown bird. It comes I know not whence. Powerless my mind to chain its feet. It goes I know not whore. Binoy felt that he would like to call the Baul upstairs and take down this song about the unknown bird. But, just as in the middle of the night, when it turns suddenly cold, it is too much exertion to reach for an extra blanket, so the Baul remained uncalled, the song of the unknown bird remained unwritten, and only its strains kept echoing through Binoy a Just then an accident occurred in front of his house. A hackney-cab was run into by a grand carriage and pair, which went off at full speed taking no notice of the half-overturned gharrv which it had left in its trail.…