CHAPTER XV 



BISON, A FEW BEAR, AND ELEPHANT 



" Methinks I see a hieroglyphic bat 

 Skim through the zenith on a shpshod hat : 

 While to drink infants' blood with direful strides 

 A mashed potato on the whirlwind glides." 



I ALWAYS couple bison with this preposterous 

 Httle rhyme, for it was one that my old friend H. 

 used to sing when we were out on one of my first 

 bison trips. 



I did a certain amount of bison shooting during 

 the early portion of my service, as it suited well 

 for second leave when I was not engaged with 

 tiger or pig. But I do not propose to write at 

 great length on the subject, for my friend Morris 

 has dealt with it more fully and better than I can. 



I made a couple of trips alone into Mysore 

 from Ootacamund, getting one or two bison on 

 each occasion, but only one of them is worthy of 

 remark. I hit the bull of a herd hard with the 

 8-bore Paradox. He went off, but we overhauled 

 him soon and unexpectedly, in a nullah. I took a 

 snap-shot, which knocked the bison and myself 

 over, as I had never got the butt to my shoulder 

 and caught the recoil on the end of my nose. I 

 was bleeding hard and dazed, and could not get 

 the cartridge out, so I made a blow at it with my 



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