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If I was not Pondicherry born I must at least have lived there in order to have learnt the language. "Pondy, I was never there," I answered. He evidently did not believe me. I had some mysterious reason for concealing that I was either Pondicherry born or that I had resided there. "Then you didn't know it?" "No." "And you have not been in Villianur?" "No." "Or Bahur?" I shook my head.

By this time we had got by the pondy place and the danger of delay was past; but the others went on talking about poetry for quite a field and a half, as we walked along by the banks of the stream. The stream was broad and shallow at this part, and you could see the stones and gravel at the bottom, and millions of baby fishes, and a sort of skating-spiders walking about on the top of the water.

Perhaps at the last I might be induced to speak the truth. And even if I did not own up bravely, it was at anyrate necessary to bid farewell to a countryman, though he denied his own country. He came close to me in the crowd and touched my sleeve appealingly. "What is it, Pondy?" "Oh, sahib, you tell me now where you learn Pondicherry?" "Pondy, I told you the truth long ago," I answered.

In the half chill of the dawn the old bridge lay veiled in smoking spray, in a thin, rising vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as of the brewing of many roots, the fragrance of shores of sedges, ferns, and aromatic herbs steeped in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the creek, the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell of spatter-docks.