Note 1 — Cashmere.
Reading edition
Our descent to the camp was a good march in itself, and we arrived there about five P.M. hot and tired, ‘but quite ready for our mountain fare. On our road, we luckily discovered a quantity of young rhubarb, growing in nature’s kitchen-garden, and pouncing on it, we devoted it to the celebration of our Sunday dinner.1 We also saw a number of minaur, or jungle-fowl, something of the pheasant tribe; but they were so wild that nothing but slugs would secure them, and they entirely declined the honour of an invitation to our Sunday entertainment.