ABSTRACT
Just as the cold snap of the dawn is giving place to the warmth of approaching sun; as the colours begin to form before one’s eyes; when the morning anthem of ten thousand birds is newly and in evergrowing volume being sung, that is the hour to setout for the deserted city of Amber. And in the half-light as you drive along the already crowded streets and watch the women grinding corn, the water-carriers staggering under their pitcher loads, the commerce of the city once more in play, your thoughts may stray far from the bewildering, forming colours of Rajputana to a piazza kissed by a shimmering lagoon. It is a long cry from Jaipur to Venice, it is true; but as you see host upon host of pigeons — in legions innumerable — ooding the great broad streets, fearless, and con dent of substantial consideration, your memory instinctively ies back to the Italian piazzetta where ocks, at most no greater, of these creatures feed upon the bounty of that world-famed square.
