ROUND THE CAMP FIRE 



THE fire-undermined logs suddenly fall together, 

 sending a plume of yellow sparks flying up- 

 ward against the black night sky. We wrap 

 our cloaks more tightly, and draw up chairs 

 to the blaze, spreading appreciative hands towards the 

 attractive light and warmth. 



Behind us stand the white tents, in whose comfortable 

 shelter a good dinner has set us at peace with all the 

 world. Further off, the small fires over which our atten- 

 dants are preparing their evening meal throw a flickering 

 light on the motley equipage of an Indian camp ; while 

 above our heads hang the dark hollows of the huge 



ancient mango trees of M . Once more have we 



pitched camp at the old place. 



Our last visit was paid during the fiery month of May, 



and a very different place was M then. But now 



it is Christmas week, and one revels in the perfect weather 

 of the winter months in Central India. 



Hark ! There is the sharp whistle of pinions, as a com- 

 pany of duck wings its swift path through the cold still 

 air, high over the camp. The well-known sound of the 

 pintails conjures up pleasant anticipations of sport to 

 come, with duck and snipe, in the familiar old localities. 

 Over beyond the fire there, in the darkness, lies the dim 

 line of the jungle's edge a small piece of forest reserve, 

 where, in the good old days, it was no great feat to bag 



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