PAKHAL NADDI OF THE PALM TREES 123 



the gurgling of well-earned " pegs." Cheroots and a 

 chat, and the opening meet of the Junglypur Tent Club 

 broke up, as we drove off home the four miles to canton- 

 ments. 



Many a capital morning or afternoon did we enjoy here 

 and many a blank day, too the proceedings often 

 graced by the presence of the ladies of the station. The 

 sport that we had been led to believe was to be had with 

 the pig in other parts of the surrounding country never 

 came up to our expectations however. In spite of capital 

 bits of cover here and there, a very mistaken policy had 

 filled every hamlet with licensed guns, and it was only 

 regular strongholds like the Pakhal Naddi that could defy 

 the systematic poaching of village shikaris and professional 

 netters. 



As I have already hinted, one day's hog-hunting reads 

 very like another; so, in perplexity, one turns from the 

 difficulties of prose to the snare of blank verse. It is by 

 no means the first time that the metre of Longfellow's 

 Hiawatha has been murdered in adaptation, so apologies 

 are perhaps superfluous. 



The last time I saw the old Pakhal four good pigs 

 were laid out in a row by the mess tent. Under the soft 

 drooping foliage of the big tamarind trees by the ruined 

 fakir's tomb, the horses were being rubbed down, prepara- 

 tory to being led home. The declining sun touched the 

 surrounding fields with gold. 



As we finished our " pegs," lit up cheroots, and got into 

 the dogcart, I took a last look at the long line of grace- 

 fully posed palms, now standing out black and sharp 

 against the flaming western sky, in the quiet evening air. 

 A moment later we swung round a bend in the road, and 

 with a sigh realised that the Pakhal was a memory of the 

 past! 



